


The Footprints On The Ceiling

by Paranoid_Pug



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221C, 221b, BBC Sherlock fic, Crossover with an original story I am still writing, Demon Summoning, Estelle is a gremlin, Fantasy, Gen, Guardians - Freeform, Magic, Mendax gets killed once again, Moriarty is Alive, Moriarty is still alive, My First Fanfic, OCs - Freeform, Royal Guardians, Sherlock is is introduced to magic, Short Chapters, i dont know what im doing, it really messes with his head, set after the series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2020-12-27 12:57:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21119174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paranoid_Pug/pseuds/Paranoid_Pug
Summary: There's new intern at Scotland Yard, a quiet, awkward teenage sketch artist by the name of  Tara Willows. Of course, her first day on the job leaves her crossing paths with the notorious consulting detective - Sherlock Holmes - as a series of baffling murders flood the police station. Miraculously, Tara manages to make it through her first encounter without throwing a punch, however the strange young girl catches the detective's attention when she moves into the vacant apartment above his own - the one Mrs Hudson had never been able to fill. With increasingly impossible murders stacking up, Sherlock finds himself looking into yet another mystery: Who is Tara Willows?A crossover fanfic between Sherlock and a series that I am currently writing called The Royal Guardians.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. This is my first fanfic, so I'm not really sure what to write here, but I'm sure I'll get the hang of it. :)  
I'm currently switching over from Wattpad, so I'll be able to publish the first 10 chapters pretty much straight away, with a bit of editing, but after that... well, I intend to finish this fic, but it may be slow going.  
Anyway, these chapters will be nice and short - about 2000 words each.  
Soooo... Yay. :)  


She began her first day by crashing into a doorway. Collectively, the room's inhabitants winced as Tara's armful of supplies went toppling to the floor and she again whacked her head against the door-frame in her scramble to collect them. Detective Lestrade cursed, resting his head in his hand as the new intern precariously gathered her scattered drawing tools.

"I take it this is the new work-experience sketch-artist," he sighed.

"Tara Willows," she replied quietly. "Sorry about the um... entrance."

He nodded in sympathy, a small smile playing on his lips.

"I'm afraid you're going to be thrown straight into it. We've been inundated with cases lately and the latest one comes with a witness. Since you're cleared for crime-scene work, you'll be coming with us." He turned to lead her out, then hesitated, before adding; "Listen, I know he can come across as a little... arrogant, but if you can try not to strangle him... that would be great."

Tara raised an eyebrow, confused. "The witness?"

Lestrade shook his head. "No. The detective." 

*

Sherlock Holmes was examining a body when Lestrade came in, trailed by a timid looking girl with a sketchbook and drawing kit. At the sight of the mangled remains, Lestrade froze and almost retched, however the girl, other than looking slightly saddened, was almost unaffected.

"Who's this?" Sherlock jerked his head towards the girl, still examining the blood-spatter patterns across the floor. "Actually, ignore me - she's clearly a sketch-artist. Rather, why is she here?"

"This is Tara Willows, a new intern at the station," Lestrade choked, trying not to look at the crime-scene before him. He cursed quietly under his breath before continuing. "She's here to talk to the witness, see if she can put a face to the crime. Gosh, that's a lot of blood." He retreated from the room, still heaving.

It was then that Sherlock took a moment to really look at her:

She wore a long, green felt coat over several layers, clearly not used to the London cold, so from somewhere warm. Bright auburn hair, swept back into a messy bun and secured with a pencil - full of small untidy braids; she let someone braid her hair when they're nervous, likely a sibling or close friend. A set of necklaces - a silver arrow and a crystal pendant - clean, rarely removed, clearly of sentimental value, so likely a gift from said sibling or friend. She wore a leather wrist-brace on her right hand - some sort of injury - and had a strange blue tattoo on the inside of her left wrist, a symbol Sherlock was unfamiliar with. He made a mental note to look into it later. Timid, and clumsy - what little skin was showing from beneath her coat was speckled with bruises and there was a fresh graze on her forehead. There was also a small crescent scar at her hairline - old, likely from a childhood injury. The callouses between her pointer and middle finger suggested she was skilled in archery. Then his focus shifted to her eyes; they were bright, startling blue with a rose-gold ring around the iris, but that wasn't what caught his attention. It was the way she was looking at him back, as if she knew exactly what he was deducing about her - a kind of intelligent curiosity rather than contempt.

"You can give it a go, but I'm afraid she's practically catatonic at this stage," Sherlock replied, his eyes not moving from hers. She nodded, breaking his stare and moved towards an elderly woman whom John was comforting in the corner.

"I'll see what I can do. Maybe I can calm her down a bit," she replied. An accent: Australian. That explained her aversion to the cold. Sherlock returned his gaze to the maimed cadaver, his gloved hands combing the man's blood-soaked belongings for any hints as to who he was and how he died. 

"Hey, do you think we can have a chat?" Tara said quietly, trying for a small encouraging smile. The woman was visibly shaking and it sent a ache of sympathy through Tara's body. She introduced herself gently, managing to extract a name in return from both the woman and the doctor caring for her. Reluctantly, Dr John Watson joined Sherlock Holmes at the crime-scene, leaving Tara alone with the terrified Evangeline Baxter.

"Mrs Baxter, please, I know you're scared. Just... Keep your eyes on me, OK?" Tara swiftly drew the woman's focus from the body across the room back to herself, doing her best to exude calm. "Just breathe, see? OK?" She took a deep breath, as if to demonstrate, but also to steady her own nerves. Slowly and quietly, she continued: "Now, I need you to do something for me, but only if you feel OK to. Do you think you can tell me what happened?"

Evangeline took a shaky breath but was wracked by a fit of sobs before she could say anything. Tara placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, allowing her to regain her composure. "If you need to stop, that's OK. Take as much time as you need," Tara assured tenderly, then listened attentively as the woman recounted what she'd seen. 

"How's she doing that?" Sherlock asked in a slightly irritated tone, glancing over to where the sketch-artist was quietly talking with the previously mute witness, frantically scribbling in her sketchbook as the woman gave her account. "We couldn't get a word out of her before."

"Yes, well, some people have a bit more tact when it comes to people than you do, Sherlock," John replied, not without humour. After a moment, the intern stalked over to where they stood by the corpse, sketchbook in hand.

"This is who, or rather what, Evangeline said killed this man." She held up the page to reveal a rough but skilled sketch of a creature with glowing eyes, its coal-black face split by an eerie, sharp-toothed grin. It's talon-fingered hands were scribbled over with red pencil, which John assumed was meant to be blood. Bile rose in John's throat as he looked back at the shredded body on the floor, then back to the gruesome depiction of the killer.

"So you're saying, that thing..." John pointed to the sketch, "did this." He gestured to the body.

"I'm saying that's what Evangeline thinks she saw," Tara corrected.

"Of course it's not what she really saw, she's in shock," Sherlock interceded, "but something still ripped this man to shreds, and I intend to find out what."

Tara tucked her sketchbook inside her jacket and gestured timidly towards the corpse.

"May I?"

Sherlock looked at her curiously, then, surprisingly, stepped aside.

"Be my guest," he replied, much to John's amazement. Tara pulled a pair of gloves from a coat pocket and bent to examine the deep rakes in the man's flesh while Sherlock watched her, analysing her closely.

"Looks like claw marks," she mused out loud. "Quite deep - ripped his insides to shreds. He would have died almost instantly." Sherlock was still watching her closely, not even bothering to mention that he'd already deduced as much already. She shifted her weight, resting her elbow on her knee as she looked over the sea of blood across the floor. "There's no footprints in the blood, and other than the victims steps and our own, the dust hasn't been disturbed." She turned to Sherlock inquisitively. "So how did the killer get in and out without leaving any tracks?"

This, Sherlock took as his cue to jump in.

"That is is exactly what I am yet to work out." He pivoted in the centre of the room, suddenly lost to his own mind. "So if they were to use the door, there would be prints - the dust would be disturbed. But if they used the window, they would have had to break it, as it doesn't open. But the window is intact, so they can't have come through there..."

"Sherlock?" Tara tentatively interrupted.

"Shut up. I need to think." Sherlock cut.

"Sherlock," Tara pressed. "The roof."

John's jaw dropped as his gaze rose to where Tara was staring.

"Um... Sherlock? You really do need to see this." he murmured.

"What?" the detective snapped. "Oh." He fell silent as the three of them stared, open mouthed, at the smeared line of blood trailed across the ceiling, distinct hand and foot-prints printed in glistening dark red. 

*

Sherlock paced the floor of 221B, lost in thought. There was no possible way for the murderer to enter the room without disturbing dust at the door, or without breaking the window, however there were blood-trails on the roof, which suggested that, somehow, the killer made their way across the ceiling. Improbable, but the evidence at hand suggested that it was not impossible. He only had to figure out how. Then there was that girl, the new sketch-artist. He had a sneaking suspicion, or rather a logical one, that there was more to her and her internship than simply sketching mugshots. He'd been intrigued when she asked to look around and was curious to see just how much she noticed.

A sharp rap on the door brought him back to the present, and with a jolt, he realised John had been trying to get his attention for the past minute.

"Sherlock!" John sighed, sounding exasperated. "For the fifteenth time, there is someone downstairs."

Mrs Hudson chose that moment to enter with a tray of tea, after having knocked for some half a minute, giving Sherlock no time to glance out the window at whom John was referring to.

"I have news!" She tottered in, grinning, and set down the platter on Sherlock's table. "I've found a tenant for the upstairs apartment! You know, the one with those shoes and the mould problem. Only, there isn't a mould problem now; I had it fixed."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yes!" Mrs Hudson beamed. "She's right outside. I'll bring her up to meet you."

"That would be wonderful, Mrs Hudson," John cut in before Sherlock could say anything sarcastic about the likelihood of her actually having fixed the practically permanent musk. The landlady retreated out the door and sounded to be coaxing someone in, before she returned with the nervous tenant in tow.

"Come along Dearie, and meet your new neighbours. This is..."

Tara's eyes widened as she locked gazes with Sherlock for the second time that day. There was a duffel bag full of clothes and toiletries slung over one of her shoulders and a potted Aloe Vera plant tucked under the other arm. Enough to get by with for a short stay, but not the months an internship would take. Then there was the matter of her moving in directly above 221B. Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"Um... Hello... Again..." she mumbled. "I... I didn't realise you lived here. I'm... I'm just going to... uh..." She fumbled with her words. "I'll just go and drop my stuff off. Upstairs. Bye." She clumsily backed out of the apartment, flashing a quick, awkward grin before tripping over the bottom step.

"Ooh, she's a graceless one, that girl. Make sure she feels welcome, boys. I'd best make sure she doesn't fall down the stairs."

The second Mrs Hudson had left, Sherlock turned to John pensively.

"What are the chances of a new intern turning up at the same crime-scene as us on her first day, then moving into the apartment above our own that afternoon?" He asked.

"Judging by the fact that you're asking, pretty low?" John guessed. "Why? You think something's wrong?"

"I don't know. And you know I don't like not knowing."

"What are you going to do? Spy on her?"

Without responding, Sherlock turned on his heel and strode from the apartment.

"Great. He's going to spy on her. Of course," he heard John rave, to no-one in particular. 

* 

"Hey Nat," Tara's voice carried down the stairwell. She was on the phone. "Yeah, I've just moved in. And by move in, I mean I've opened the door and chucked my bag on the floor. You know, the crazy thing is, they've put me in an apartment right above that detective guy - yeah, the one from the crime scene today. Hold on, my new neighbour is eavesdropping outside my door. Just give me a sec. Hey Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock stiffened. There was no reproach in her tone, though.

"If you're so intent on listening in, do yourself a favour and next time don't breathe so loud."

He sighed, giving a small smile at his spying defeat and turned to leave, but she called out again to stop him.

"Um... Mr Holmes?"

"Sherlock," he corrected as she opened the door.

"Sherlock. Uh, my sister said she wants to talk to you, if that's alright." She gestured to the phone in her hand. He took it slowly - cautiously.

"Hello?" he said blankly, without preamble. The voice on the other end was just as straight-to-the-point:

"Keep an eye on my sister for me, will you? She has a knack for finding... trouble. I want her back in one piece."

Sherlock was silent.

"Well, now we've got that over and done with, can you pass me back to Tara? I need to make sure she hasn't fallen down any stairs lately."

Without a word, Sherlock handed back the phone, just as his own buzzed in his pocket. He could feel Tara's inquisitive gaze on him as he stalked down the stairs, phone in hand. Lestrade's voice sounded strained on the other end:

"Sherlock, we've got another one."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not sure what to write here, but anyway...  
I have some character art at  
https://royalguardiansbooks.weebly.com/character-art.html  
if anyone wants to have a look. I will be adding this link to the end of each chapter, and hopefully I will gradually update it with more art as I make it.   
I'm always open to suggestions and requests if you guys want to see me add anything to the story, so...  
Enjoy :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More murders, and now a kidnapping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... more people are dying. What more can I say? :)  
See you at the end notes. :)

A drop of blood fell from the ceiling, the soft 'pat' the only sound in the room as Sherlock waited in the doorway of the newest crime scene. He stood, his hands clasped together in thought as he stared at the impossible scenario before him. 

"OK, I'm just going to say it," John broke the silence, "How in the world did that get up there? And how is it still up there?" 

Sherlock carefully observed the body on the ceiling and the pool of blood around it, suspended as though gravity had been inverted. 

"I don't know," he said flatly. "But there must be an explanation. There has to be. Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." 

"Well, explain that." 

"I can't. Not yet. I need to see the body more closely."

John sighed. "I'll go see if Tara can find us a ladder or something."

Sherlock started, breaking his stare.

"Tara? What's she doing here?" 

"Lestrade sent her. There was another witness. She's outside getting the sketch." 

As if on cue, the diminutive intern entered the room with her sketchbook. At the same time, the body dropped from the ceiling, landing with an unceremonious 'fwump' and drenching the three of them in a spray of blood. John cursed loudly and Tara flinched. 

"Well, that saves us needing a ladder." Sherlock deadpanned. "And who's our supposed killer this time?" 

Tara held up her now blood-spattered sketch-pad.

"Same description as earlier." 

Sherlock frowned at the almost identical rendering of a glowing-eyed creature, the red pencil on its claws now replaced by a glistening scarlet droplet. 

*

"Sherlock, I still don't get why you're so suspicious of that girl," John groaned as Sherlock went on his fifth rant that fortnight. In the past two weeks there had been another three killings just like the first - footprints, and sometimes even the body, on the ceiling. John could tell they were baffling Sherlock, and he was becoming even more irritable the longer his questions went unanswered. Furthermore, John had never had to remove so many bloodstains from clothing. It wasn't that he minded the blood - it was that he had to put on a new load of washing every time they came home, and none of the taxis would drive them. 

"There's something off about her, but I can't pick what," Sherlock grouched, slamming down his empty cup of tea. 

"Oh, you're just annoyed she beat you, that's all," John replied, smirking, just to see his reaction. 

"She did not beat me," Sherlock responded immediately. "She just made some accurate deductions." 

A few days ago, Sherlock had decided to break into Tara's apartment and look around. John had tried to dissuade him, but he was adamant, and insisted John come too. They'd found nothing but a few clothes, her toothbrush, a neatly made bed and a note taped to the her plant-pot:

Dear Sherlock, (And John. I assume he's dragged you with him. Hi.) 

Do me a favour and give my pot-plant a water while you're snooping around, will you? 

Thanks :) 

P.S The plant is named Kevin.

Finally, John had stumbled across her shoulder-bag, which he'd reluctantly handed over to Sherlock for 'inspection'. 

"A purse with some notes and spare coins," Sherlock listed out loud, "A business card for some shop called 'Our Satellite Hearts' - sells crystals and candles. Some ear-plugs? Why would she need ear plugs? Oh, a student ID card: Name; Tara Louise-Eleanor Willows, Age; 16, School; Exchange Program for Gifted Students/Currently Undertaking Internship in Sketch-Artistry. And... another note." He sounded vaguely irritated, despite his blank expression. 

Hello again. I'd better not be missing any change when I get back. I will notice. 

P.S In case you were wondering, I keep my phone in my jacket. If you want to snoop, you'll have to pickpocket me first. Good luck with that. 

Sherlock did, in fact, try to pickpocket her. Tried, and failed. Multiple times. On the first attempt, Tara's hand clamped around his wrist, much to his surprise and John's entertainment. She wasn't mad - in fact she seemed rather amused. The second time she managed to dodge around him, employing some fancy footwork that was at odds with her usual clumsy movements. The third time, Sherlock managed to extract something, however it turned out to be another folded note:

Really Sherlock? 

Despite his suspicions, Sherlock had come to respect the young intern. She was clearly intelligent, and to everyone's surprise and relief, able to put up with the detective's ego. She never questioned his demands for her to leave, never retorted at his constant questioning of why she was allowed anywhere near a crime scene, and even humoured his strange requests, such as the time he asked her to sketch a witness' account with the opposite hand, and the time he told her to lay on the floor like she was dead while Molly Hooper, the morgue specialist, pretended to examine her corpse. When she wasn't playing a dead person, she'd strike up conversation with John, who found her quiet exchanges endearing. Usually she'd scribble in her book while she talked, John noticed - tiny fantasy scenes and elfin characters with swirling patterns up their arms. He also noticed the tiny, faint scars that dotted her exposed skin, and wondered if they were from her apparent habitual clumsiness, or something else entirely. 

"Do you need me to have a look at that for you?" John asked one day as they sat watching Sherlock examine yet another body. He gestured to a string of bruises across her knuckles, which were emphasised as she clutched her pencil. "Your hand seems stiffer than usual today? Did something happen?" 

The pencil clattered from her hand and she pulled her sleeve down to cover her fist.

"It's, uh, it's fine," she stuttered, startled. John's eyes narrowed and he felt himself subconsciously glance towards Sherlock. "I just forgot my wrist-brace today. My hand stiffens up if I don't wear it for a while. That's all." 

"Are you sure? I'm a doctor, you know. I can tell something's not right. " 

After a moment of hesitation, she cautiously revealed her hand and let John probe it for injury, not even wincing as he reached the tender bruising on her knuckles. She froze when he went to turn her hand over, and wouldn't make eye contact when he sent a questioning gaze her way. Nevertheless, she didn't pull away as John moved to push back her sleeve. 

"Whoa," he gaped as he eyed the jagged scar across her wrist, and the scars above that. "I mean, I've seen scarring before, but jeez, those look like claw marks," he said nodding at the slashes above her wrist that reached almost to her elbow.

"Dog attack," she said, almost a little too quickly.

"Uh huh," John replied slowly, his eyes straying to the deep rakes in the corpse across the room. Tara wrenched her sleeve down again, still not making eye contact. 

"I said I'm fine. I just forgot my brace." 

"OK," John conceded, raising his hands to show his submission. 

After a moment, she softly added; "Listen, John. My scars... aren't something I really like to talk about. It's just..." She broke off, something in the crime-scene before them catching her eye. Slowly, she rose and tiptoed towards the body.

"Sherlock?" she whispered, "I think I found something." 

Within an instant, Sherlock and John were at her side. 

"What do each of these victims have in common?" she asked, the question directed at the both of them. 

"All male, within the age range of 30 - 50," Sherlock began.

"All killed by apparent claw marks to the abdomen," John continued, curious to see where she was going with the question, albeit surprised by the sudden shift in mood.

"All found with either the body or footprints on the ceiling. All with a single witness who claims a monster of the same description is the killer. Other than that, there is little that connects the victims. The work across a range of professions and have never met. None of them share a common acquaintance, nor have they communicated online," Sherlock finished. "What did you find?" 

"See here, on his neck?" Tara pointed to a series of faint raised lines. 

"Is that a tattoo?" John asked. She nodded. 

"It's a special type of tattoo in ink that is only visible under a black-light. This one is fairly new, otherwise it would be practically invisible to the naked eye." She darted for her drawing kit, bringing out a UV torch, and shone it over the man's ink. A strange symbol was illuminated - whorls and lines which interlinked and overlapped, forming some sort of pattern. "I'm willing to bet that the other victims have a similar mark." 

Within seconds, Sherlock was texting Molly:

Check bodies for tattoos with black-light. 

SH.

*

Having received Molly's reply shortly after arriving back at 221B, Sherlock sat in his favourite chair, staring at the wall pinned with photos of each of the men's unique tattoos. Tara had been right, which had only piqued his interest further. There were things she wasn't telling them - things even Sherlock couldn't deduce - like how she knew the other men would bear the same sort of markings, and how she recognised them in the first place. Then there was the matter of her own tattoo: Sherlock had still had no luck finding out what it was. After a moment of scribbling, Sherlock added a crude rendition of Tara's mark to the wall: A circle framed at the base by an intricate tiara-like image. 

There was a hesitant knock on the apartment door. Sherlock didn't have to turn around to know who it was.

"Hello Tara. What do you want?" 

"I was wondering, if... um.. If maybe I could borrow a couple of your test-tubes - I saw you had a set on your kitchen table the last time I was here - for my science homework, please? If that's alright? My teachers just sent through a prac assignment for me to work on while I'm away." 

"What sort of prac?" Sherlock interrupted blankly. 

"A combustion prac. We have to mix things together until they either explode or catch on fire."

"Good. I was getting bored staring at the wall. I'll help."

"Really?" Her entire face lit up with a smile as Sherlock strode purposefully towards the kitchen and offered her a pair of safety goggles. 

Ten minutes later, Sherlock was dousing a small fire on the kitchen bench, grinning, while Tara excitedly jotted down their latest results in her soot-covered note-book. 

"I wonder how it would react with organic matter?" he mused.

"I have a plant upstairs!" Tara replied, equally energised. She dramatically blew a long strand of frizzled red hair out of her eyes. "I'll go get it!" 

The tiny intern bolted from the room and headed for the stairs. A few seconds later, a heavy thud shook the roof, followed by a frustrated "Ow!" and a cheery "I'm OK!" 

*

John returned to the apartment to find Sherlock covered in soot, an array of scorch-marks spread across the kitchen. 

"I'm not even going to ask," John sighed, clearly resigned to Sherlock's eccentrics. He dumped his shopping bags of milk in the fridge, shuddering, as usual, at the contents. "At least its only a tray of mould and not another severed head," he mumbled, loud enough for it to reach Sherlock's ears, before settling himself in his armchair with a newspaper. Sherlock glanced down at the chemistry set before him, then back to the door.

"John?"

"Hmm?" John muttered.

"How long should it take to run upstairs, grab a pot plant from a stand on the fireplace, possibly apply a band-aid to a grazed knee from falling on the stairs, and then return?" 

"Uh... not long? Why?" 

"She's been gone for almost 15 minutes," 

Sherlock sprinted up the stairs, skipping over the scuffs where Tara had tripped, his coat billowing after him. John's heavy footfalls thudded behind, and he was thankful again for John's instant understanding. The door to 221C hung ajar and Sherlock slammed it open, freezing at the scene inside. 

Tara's pot plant lay shattered, pottery shards and soil strewn across the floor. The apartment was empty, the metallic tang of blood heavy in the air. A soft patter met his ears and with a sinking feeling in his stomach, Sherlock looked to the roof. Across the ceiling was a smear of dripping blood, and a set of footprints leading to a broken window.

And on the floor, among the leaves of the crumpled plant, there was a note.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, she's not dead.  
As always, there is arty stuff on my website at  
https://royalguardiansbooks.weebly.com/character-art.html  
if you want to check out some characters.  
New OCs coming next chapter. :) Ah I love my little gremlins.  
Shout out to Miranda for the inspiration for my nuttiest character, Estelle. My real life chaos entity friend. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some new (and some old) faces make an entrance and... Is that a duck in your coat?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cue menacing quack.  
I am new to this site, so I am still trying to work out a few of the formatting things, so if this comes up a little weird, I am sorry and I am trying to fix it. Also, does anyone know how to get italics and bold, or is that just not possible on this site? I am confused.  
Anyway... enjoy :)

Sherlock and John, 

If you're reading this note, then something is wrong. I have hidden it in this plant pot in case of emergencies: If something has happened to me, there is something I need you to do:

In the bottom of my duffel-bag, there is a secret compartment. I need you to take out its contents, and keep it with you. If I'm right about these murders, you may need it.

If something has happened to me, my sister will know. I don't know how she always knows, she just does. So I need to warn you that she may send someone to find me. Be prepared for weirdness.

If I'm right, this case is not like the others you've faced. You need to keep an open mind, and be on guard. If they've come for me, they'll come for you next.

I know you'll have questions. If I'm still alive, I will do my best to answer them. I promise it will be anything but boring. 

Sherlock handed the note gingerly to John, who read it out loud for the both of them. He finished with a string of very British curses and asked;

"How'd she know she would be taken?"

"I think Tara knows more about these murders than she was letting on," Sherlock replied, his eyes scanning the scene. "The window is smashed, but there is no glass on the inside. That means whoever was here left from the window, but didn't enter from it. Signs of a struggle, but a short one at that. Her pot plant is smashed, so she must have dropped it when she realised what was happening, possibly deliberately to alert us to the note hidden within it, but she was clearly overpowered and taken through the window by her attacker. Where's her bag? We need to see what she left there for us." 

The pair rummaged through Tara's duffel bag, spraying the room with clothes in a frankly alarming amount of green, until they reached the bottom. After a second of feeling around for an opening, Sherlock pried the lid from the secret compartment and reached inside. His fingers wrapped around a smooth leather sheath and the neatly wrapped handle of a dagger.

"Is that a knife?" John started. Sherlock drew the blade slowly, turning it over to reveal an intricately carved pattern of a flower engulfed by flames. The sound of a door clicking shut behind them set them on high alert and they bolted upright, staring at the previously open doorway.

With an almighty crash, the door was ripped from its hinges, and a wild bundle flew after it, which after a second, Sherlock realised was a person. With their foot still stuck in the door.

"ESTELLE!? What the -" Two more teens raced into the apartment, one swearing profusely. "The door was already open, you idiot! Why on Earth....?"

"What?" the one called Estelle asked innocently, still trying to remove her foot from the wood. "I just wanted to kick down a door."

Sherlock stared.

"Why is there a duck in your coat?" he asked pointedly.

"Um... I have other questions!" John interrupted.

The scrawny teenager reached into her coat and drew a knife.

"Don't ask questions you aren't ready for," she hissed, brandishing the blade at the pair. A menacing quack emanated from within her pockets. The other two girls sighed, their head in their hands.

"That's a blunt plastic knife from a pink children's tea party set," Sherlock pointed out.

Estelle hurled the knife towards Sherlock with a snarl and it hit him harmlessly in the forehead with a soft 'fwap'. He blinked indignantly.

"OK, is anyone else confused?" John yelled, raising his hand. 

"These are the people Tara warned us her sister might send," Sherlock explained calmly. "Hello Miss Willows. I believe we talked over the phone."

A girl with a thick mane of bright auburn hair gave a small smile.

"She said you were smart, Sherlock, although I must admit: we do look alike. Please, call me Natasha." She gestured to the girl beside her, whose choppy black hair, bloody knuckles and multiple piercings made her infinitely more intimidating than the girl with the plastic knife. That, and the long silver rapier strapped to her side. "This is Thalia, and this," She nodded towards Estelle, who had finally managed to remove her foot from the door, "Is our nutty friend Estelle, whom we are seriously regretting bringing with us."

"Hey," Estelle glared. She had a long, sharp face with short-cropped dirty-blonde hair, and a figure like a tall, thin stick. Her long, fur-lined coat contained far more pockets than were necessary, one of which, Sherlock deduced, contained a small duck happily nestled in the fluff. Several others seemed to be simply filled with glitter. Indeed, it clung to her clothes and coated her jacket, making her look like she'd stepped out of a craft store explosion. Natasha, on the other hand, shared her sister's curved figure, but was considerably taller than the diminutive intern. Judging by the matching callouses between her fingers, she also shared her sister's skill in archery. Thalia, Sherlock watched warily. He had no doubt she was experienced with the weapon sheathed at her side and her scuffed leather jacket hid an athletic, strong build. All, to Sherlock's growing intrigue, bore the same strange tattoo on the inside of their left wrists. The same tattoo as Tara.

"Now," Natasha continued, her expression becoming terrifyingly serious. "Where's my sister?" 

*

Thalia swore loudly; "Man, am I glad I brought my sword." Sherlock had just finished explaining the case to them and the circumstances of Tara's disappearance.

"I don't understand," John remarked, "Why would you need a sword?"

"See that thing in Tara's sketchbook? Yeah, that's why." Thalia turned to her friends. "OK, who do we need to call? Constantine? The Winchesters? Do we know anyone at the London Shadowhunter Institute?" 

"I'm sorry, I still don't understand."

"That thing in Tara's sketchbook is not what killed those people," Sherlock cut, "Monsters and demons don't exist. And whoever is really behind it, I intend to find them."

"Oh, you poor little logical man, holding onto your perception of sanity." Estelle reached up to gently pat Sherlock's shoulder. Even though she was taller than Tara, she still had to stand on her tiptoes. Sherlock glared. John was still very much confused. 

The three girls eyed Sherlock's wall back at 221B while John watched them carefully. Even John had noticed the surreptitious pulling down of sleeves as their eyes landed on Sherlock's sketch of Tara's tattoo. He also noticed the scars - the tiny, faint marks across their skin, like those on Tara's hands, the small slice beneath Thalia's eye and the edges of slash-marks that crept above the Estelle's collar and clawed at the back of her neck. He'd seen men with such scars, in the hospitals and battlefields of Afghanistan, though they had been peppered with bullet holes and shrapnel wounds, not claw marks. Then there was the way they held themselves - John recognised the tension in their muscles, the alertness in their postures. Despite their relatively relaxed appearance, these were girls were trained to fight, and fight well. With a jolt he realised that beneath the awkward clumsiness, he'd seen glimpses of the same alertness in Tara, and he thought again how she'd dodged Sherlock's attempts at pick pocketing with more grace than he'd ever seen her employ.

"A warlock coven," Thalia observed.

"I'm sorry, what?" Sherlock interrupted, crossing his arms.

"These men were part of a warlock coven," Natasha continued, "A group of people who get together in secret and try very hard to do ultimately ineffective magic." She emphasised the word, as though it were a ridiculous notion. Estelle stifled a snort. "Usually they only manage to make someone mad, and then they all turn up dead, one by one." Her tone made it clear that this wasn't the first time she'd seen such a thing happen. How, though, John wasn't sure. The girl could hardly be older than sixteen.

"That's absurd. Magic doesn't exist," Sherlock continued, but confusion, and even fear, was beginning to creep into his expression.

"That doesn't stop some people from believing it does," Natasha replied quietly. "You might want to bring that knife with you, Mr Holmes." She gestured to the strange silver blade still in Sherlock's hand. "When the occult is involved, things can get... dangerous. Besides, if you find Tara, she'll want it back." 

*

Tara struggled in the musty darkness, her bizarre, rubbery bindings constricting the air from her lungs. Something warm and wet trickled down the side of her face, and she vaguely remembered hitting her head on the ceiling before she blacked out. The demon's glowing eyes swan before her blurry vision as her fuzzy thoughts started to clear, the memory of its needle-fanged grin sending shivers down her spine.

"Vamperic demon," she muttered to herself. "I should have known from the darn sketches. Whose stupid idea was it to go and summon a blood-sucking demon with lethal claws and a infatuation with scaring the socks off people by crawling along the ceiling? Seriously?" She knew she was raving to no one in particular, but talking to herself helped keep her mind off the panic of the situation she was now in. Still mumbling to herself, she tried to inch towards her boots, where she kept a small knife hidden for such emergencies. After a few tries, she finally succeeded in loosening her leathery bonds, and clamoured to her feet in time for the lights to flicker on around her and a figure in an expensive suit to swagger into the room.

"Oh, I see you've taken the liberty of untying yourself. Well done." His voice was lilting, weighted with a sing-song Irish accent. Tara drew herself up to her full 161cm, which, when she stopped to think about it, was probably more funny than it was intimidating. She gripped the tiny knife, steadying herself for the possibility of having to fight.

"Want a marshmallow?" He pulled a crumpled bag from his pocket. "Sorry, I ate all the pink ones."

"Who are you?" Tara asked warily.

"Jim Moriarty." He smiled. It didn't meet his eyes. "Hi."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's aliiiiiiiivvvvveeeeee.  
Next chapter should be up soon.  
As always, character art is at  
https://royalguardiansbooks.weebly.com/character-art.html  



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marshmallows, demons and self-aware villain monologues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why on Earth does it take so long for me to write 2000 words?  
(That was a rhetorical question. The answer is procrastination.)  
Anyway... enjoy :)

Jim Moriarty moved slowly towards Tara, who held her ground until he reached out and wrenched the tiny knife from her hand. Cheerfully, he used it to spear a marshmallow, and held it up in offering. When she refused, he shrugged and downed it himself.

"Suit yourself," he grinned through a full mouth.

"Sorry, um... Moriarty?" Tara interrupted. Instinctively, she felt he went by his last name, as opposed to Sherlock, who preferred his first. "That still doesn't tell me who you are."

He laughed, a deep chortle that shook his frame, and went on for slightly too long. Tara eyed him warily.

"I'm a ghost."

Tara raised an eyebrow calmly.

"You see," he waved the knife around carelessly, swallowing his mouth-full of marshmallows before continuing animatedly; "I'm supposed to be dead. Only, being dead is sooooooooo boring, so I decided to make a comeback."

"Ok, you're gonna need to explain a little further, I think I have a bit of a concussion," Tara replied evenly, gesturing to the blood caking the side of her head. 

"Eugh." He grimaced exaggeratedly. "Well, that's unfortunate." His eyes narrowed. "You don't actually know who I am, do you?"

"Not a clue. Care to enlighten me?"

"Ever heard of Sherlock Holmes?"

"We've met," She replied slowly – carefully. "Why? Are you a friend?"

He smirked. "More like an enemy."

"OK, then. Do I need to be worried? Are you going to try and kill me?" Tara queried coolly.

"Probably," He admitted, after a second of thought. Tara rolled her eyes.

"Great," she groaned.

"Buuut, not yet. You sure you don't want a marshmallow?" He shoved another two into his mouth. Tara shook her head in disgust, silently reviewing her options. She could try and escape, but that would mean having to find her way out of the complex. As she extended her senses outwards, probing for a way out, she became aware of the guttural growls of the demon perched right outside the door, and she was not prepared to face it completely unarmed. Plus, she'd have to make it past Mr Marshmallow Man before she even made it to the door. Which left her with her second option: Bide her time and find out as much as she could before she made her move. Time to employ the good old 'Plan A for Tired People: Keep them talking'. 

Moriarty, as it turned out, was a fan of villain monologuing. He was well aware that he was villain monologuing. He just didn't care. Tara had to stifle a laugh. She loved British criminals. They were so polite. Together they ended up slouched against the warehouse wall, Moriarty tossing marshmallows into the air before catching them in his open mouth, Tara resisting the urge to just take her chances with the demon. Tara learned that Moriarty had faked his death by shooting himself in the face on a rooftop with Sherlock, who had also proceeded to stage a suicide via jumping off the building. The only difference was, while Sherlock had returned to the public eye after two years, everyone else thought Moriarty was actually dead. He still refused to tell Tara how he did it, despite her gentle probing, but he did mention again that living as a dead man was immensely 'boooorrrrinnnggg', before downing another two marshmallows. Tara listened intently, trying to glean any useful information. The only problem was, she could see he knew exactly what she was doing, and was being very careful about what he let slip.

It was something Tara had always taken for granted: People talked to her. There was something about her presence that had villains spilling their plans, friends in need of an ear confiding their fears. Tara had a sneaking suspicion that, even though he was being careful, Moriarty really just wanted someone to talk to. It made sense, after all. He had faked his death and gone into relative isolation for over two years. And as long as he was talking, she was alive. 

"Soooo..... You're not at all worried about that blood-sucking demon outside the door there, right?" Tara prompted, hoping to steer the conversation in a productive direction.

"Oh, you can see it too? I was starting to think I was going insane." Moriarty looked at her with wide eyes, before his expression broke into a wide grin. "I'm kidding. Sanity is so overrated, anyway. Of course I'm not worried about it." He chuckled. "I've decided to branch out. Normal crime wasn't really doing it for me, so I decided to explore the supernatural. My newest client specialises in summoning demons, so I gave him some tips on how to take out some 'warlocks' that had irked him. Plus, it will reeeaaallly mess with Sherlock's head." 

*

"OK, this is messing with my head." Sherlock drove Tara's knife into the wall, straight through one of the black-light tattoo photos. "How did these men end up dead on the ceiling? How did the killer even get into the room? Why was there always one witness? And who," He ripped the crude sketch of Tara's mark from its pin, "are these people?"

The three strange teenagers had returned to Tara's room to look for further clues, not that they'd find anything Sherlock hadn't already noticed.

"Sherlock," John began. He'd been quiet ever since the girls had left and Sherlock perked up at the sound of his voice. " This has probably have all already crossed your mind, but I noticed some things. I actually do that sometimes. And I would like to share them with you, if you'll listen. Because, maybe, just maybe, I may have seen something you didn't." 

"Go on..." Sherlock had to admit, the prospect of John making deductions did pique his interest. He knew that sometimes it came across otherwise, but he really did value John's input.

John went on to explain what he'd seen: The small scars that dotted the girls' skin and his doubts that all of them were prone to habitual clumsiness like Tara. The larger scars, which he was sure Sherlock would have noticed, because "you're Sherlock Holmes and you notice stuff like that", and the scars that Sherlock didn't see - the claw marks up Tara's arm which she'd shown to John as he examined her stiff wrist the day she forgot her brace. The way they held themselves - not quite military - John knew enough about military training to recognise it when he saw it.  
"Sherlock," he began slowly, "I think your new neighbour is an assassin."

*

"So, what are you exactly? Some kind of assassin?" Tara asked, trying her best to sound genuinely interested. Moriarty chuckled. The marshmallow bag was quickly emptying, and Tara was sure she wouldn't have long once it was finished.  
"Clever, playing for time. Trying to find out anything that will help you escape."  
"Speaking of escape," Tara continued, trying to appear unruffled, when really her stomach was churning. "I still don't know why exactly I'm here." She gestured to the empty warehouse around her. "Why have I been kidnapped by a blood- sucking demon? Also, why didn't it just try and kill me then and there?"  
"Ah now she's asking the right questions." His sing-song tone did nothing to ease her nerves. "You really don't seem all that bothered by this situation, do you?"  
"Let's just say this isn't my first kidnapping. Now are you going to answer my questions, or do I have to keep wondering why I'm not bleeding out on the ceiling right now?"

He finished the last marshmallow and rose, crunching the bag down agonisingly slowly, a wolf-like grin spreading across his face.

"You," He circled his finger in the air patronisingly, finishing pointing right at her. "Are going to be bait."

Tara groaned. 

With some 'gentle' persuasion - namely some unconvincing threats and some more convincing growls from the demon outside - Moriarty managed to coax a disgruntled Tara into position, hand-cuffing her tightly to a chair in the middle of the abandoned warehouse. Tara was careful to tense her muscles as he secured her, giving her just a little more wriggle room when relaxed. As much as she hated playing 'damsel in distress', she needed to play along for just a little longer. Moriarty went about his preparations, and Tara watched him like a hawk, taking note of every little movement like her life depended on it. Which it probably did. She wasn't prepared to just sit idle, however, and quickly got to work on her end of the plan while the consulting criminal's back was turned. Warmth quickly flooded into her numb fingers as the harsh metal loosened around her wrists. She smiled to herself silently, then grimaced as she remembered what she would have to do next: That demon was still between her and the door, and if Sherlock was headed here to 'rescue' her, as per Moriarty's plan, she'd have to deal with it before it could rip him and John to shreds on the ceiling - which would kinda be bad. So, this next part was going to suck. A lot. Now it just became a waiting game, watching for the right time to make her move. 

*

Sherlock was silent for a moment, and for a second John thought he'd completely misinterpreted things. But, slowly, he nodded. It was at that moment that Mrs Hudson chose to enter, followed closely by the three other girls. John eyed them warily, but asked nonetheless; 

"Anything?"

Natasha shook her head. 

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Mrs Hudson interceded,"but there's a package here for you Sherlock." 

With only a raise of an eyebrow, Sherlock reached out to take a small envelope from Mrs Hudson's extended hand. Carefully, and with all eyes upon him, he slit the paper, and a small rectangular object slid out into his gloved hand: A phone - a pink phone. Immediately, it began to ring and without even blinking, he answered. It was a video call. Sherlock turned the screen to show the rest of them: The camera was centred on Tara, the side of her face bloodied and her hands cuffed to a chair. She looked enormously disgruntled at the fact. But before any of them could respond, a familiar face leapt into the frame, his overly cheerful grin not matched by the creepy glint in his eyes.

"Miss me?" 

John's jaw dropped as he watched Sherlock's dead enemy grin into the camera.

"I thought you said...."

"Clearly I was mistaken. It does happen from time to time," Sherlock cut him off blankly. 

"Yes, well, I won't go into the booooriing details," Moriarty leered, "but like our sociopathic friend Sherlock here, I faked my death. Anyhoooo, I have something here I think you'll be anxious to get back. She's your neighbour, isn't she? Sweet little thing." 

Moriarty stalked to her side and stroked a finger down the blood-caked side of her face. Instead of flinching away she simply glared, and slammed her foot hard into Moriarty's shin. Her captor leapt back in surprise and pain, hopping up and down for a second while clutching his now bruised leg. 

"I gotta say, I was not expecting that," he yowled, once regaining his composure. "Remind me to bind the feet as well, next time." 

"That's our Tara," Thalia snorted. 

"Why her?" Sherlock continued, business as always. Mrs Hudson was looking on in shock from the corner, previously unaware of Tara's disappearance. 

"Let's just say, she was getting too close to one of my clients. I could have had her disposed of -"

"You could have tried," Tara cut in sarcastically. One of the girls snorted again. 

"-But I figured I could put her to use. The game is back on, Sherlock Holmes. You have 2 hours to solve my puzzle and find Tara Willows before I make good on my client's wishes. 2 hours should be enough. There are plenty of clues if you know what you're looking for." 

It was then John noticed some peculiar movement in the back of the video. Tara was shifting subtly in her chair, moving her wrists as though trying to twist the handcuffs from them. Her eyes were still fixed on Moriarty, following his movements across the camera, but a slight smile tugged at the side of her mouth. With a wide grin, Moriarty ended the clip, and just as the camera shut off, John could have sworn he saw the handcuffs fall to the ground, snapped clean in two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art link:  
https://royalguardiansbooks.weebly.com/character-art.html  
:)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty gets an unexpected blood nose, the demon gets a snack, and don't worry, only most of that blood is hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No idea what to write here, so see you at the end notes. :)  
Enjoy :)

Moriarty heard the clatter of metal as Tara's handcuffs fell, but there was nothing she could really do about that now. Instead, she gave him no time to react, and took advantage of his moment of surprise to launch herself at him, tackling him to the floor. He wasn't completely untrained, however, which she had of course expected, and he was quickly able to wriggle out of her grip.

Another thing Tara often took for granted was how often people underestimated her: People always saw her gentle nature and quiet kindness, and either took it as weakness or a need to be protected. She was kind, but she was also strong, and she was a survivor. It was scary how fast she could switch between the timid and clumsy teen, and the weapon buried underneath. After a brief but fast-paced struggle, Moriarty didn't know what hit him. It was her foot. In his face. Tara blew a loose strand of her thick red mane from her eyes with an exasperated huff and wiped a smear of blood from the side of her face. She absently kicked the twisted halves of her handcuffs aside with a grimace and headed for the distant growls beyond the door.

2 hours, Moriarty had said. If her first impression about Sherlock was right, he'd need barely half that time, which meant she needed to act fast before he got here. The last thing she needed was for her neighbours to end up in a bleeding mess on the ceiling, and if that meant facing a blood-sucking demon by herself, then, well... as she said before, this was going to suck. Of course, the door was locked. That was no surprise. She preferred not to kick it in, as that would definitely announce her presence, if the stench of her blood hadn't already done so. Besides, the door was reinforced. She couldn't pick the lock - Moriarty confiscated her bobby-pins on the off-chance she knew how to use them - but that wasn't her only option. Tara glanced back at the mangled handcuffed and with a sigh, grasped the doorknob. Once again, the familiar heat flowed into her fingers and she felt the lock buckle. Carefully, and oh so quietly, she swung the door open.

Almost instantly she felt her feet leave the ground and the air rushed from her lungs as she slammed into the ceiling. With an eerie sound like metal grinding, the dark form of the vampirical demon slithered from the wall, its long claws dragging along behind it and it's needle-like fangs glinting in the half-light. Tara clamoured to her feet unsteadily, a dizzying flow of blood rushing to her head as she stood upside down on the ceiling. Now came the not so fun bit.

The monster was fast and unnaturally strong, but Tara was agile and small, and able to slide past the beast's strikes with nimble ease. All it took was a little concentration for her clumsiness to evaporate and she was spinning off walls, dodging and hitting back at the slithering demon. With no weapon at her disposal, she realised she would have to rely on her own abilities and with an internal groan, resigned herself to the tingling warmth in her fingers once more. 

*

Sherlock had indeed seen what John saw. He had hit record as soon as the video call had started, and together the group crowded around the tiny screen and re-watched the scene play out again, scanning for any hints as to the location. Sherlock had already come up with several - they were in an abandoned warehouse, several stories high and on the top floor, as suggested by the angle of light filtering through the clumsily covered skylights. That narrowed down her location significantly. Now they stared at the frozen image, milliseconds before the video feed ended, of a pair of broken handcuffs falling to the ground.

"She snapped the handcuffs," John noted blankly, blinking ferociously as though his eyes were playing tricks on him. "She snapped them in half."

"No, John," Sherlock corrected quietly, eyeing the faint red glow around the twisted metal. "She melted them."

"Finally," Estelle muttered excitedly. "I've been begging her to try that for ages."

"Wait, Tara can melt metal?" Thalia burst quietly, as if their hushed tones would prevent Sherlock and the others from hearing their side conversation.

"Guys, not here," Natasha hissed. 

"So, uh, Moriarty's alive, Tara has been kidnapped, we have two hours to find her before Moriarty kills her, she can melt metal, and we're supposed to know what clues to look for already. Right, I think I've got it all down. Anything else?" John ticked off each point on his fingers. "How's the clues end of things going, Sherlock? You do know what to look for, right?"

"Working on it."

"Working on it? Usually you're a little more confident than that."

"I'll go put on some tea...." Mrs Hudson retreated.

"OK, so, assuming all the clues we have to look for are in the video, which I am, we have an empty warehouse, maybe 4 storeys high, on the top floor. There is a concrete floor, which is common, so that doesn't help, brick walls, again generic, and because of the camera angle, we cannot see the dimensions of the warehouse. Trust Moriarty to pick somewhere so boring. There's some faded black paint splatters on the wall, but that could be any-"

"Wait, go back to the paint splatters," Thalia interrupted. "Can we see?"

Sherlock obliged and zoomed in on the wall behind Tara, where a spray of black speckled the wall. From the splatter pattern it looked as though someone had thrown a can of paint at the bricks.

"That's not paint," Estelle murmured. "That's blood."

"Really? Last time I checked, blood doesn't spatter in that sort of formation, nor does it have the consistency and colour of black paint, " Sherlock scoffed.

"But demon blood does," Thalia added gravely.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Sorry to have to tell you this, Mr Holmes, but the world is so much weirder than you know." She turned to the other girls. "Someone's been summoning in that warehouse. At a guess I'd say this mysterious 'client' that Moriarty guy was talking about. Something like that takes a lot of energy, which should be traceable now that we know what we're looking for."

Quickly, she asked him to repeat what he'd already deduced about Tara's location. He reeled off his observations aggressively while still trying to apply logic to the girls' earlier statements. Abruptly, the trio retreated to Tara's apartment, muttering something about needing more floor space. The room was silent for a moment, broken only when John began laughing quietly and without much humour.

"So... You're alive, Moriarty's alive, I married an assassin, our neighbour is quite possibly one too... What next?"

More silence. Sherlock didn't quite know how to answer. Finally;

"You know this is quite likely a trap,"

"Oh yes. I'm not that dumb, Sherlock. If Moriarty wants you to find him, its for a reason."

"You don't have to come. I couldn't ask you to -"

"Oh of course I'm coming, Sherlock," John snapped suddenly. "You should know by now I'm not one to run from danger. And besides, you said it yourself." His mouth pulled into a mischievous smirk. "You'd be lost without your blogger." 

Once again, Sherlock found himself inexplicably lost for words. His mind wandered back to the day John had asked him to be his best man - the only other time in his memory he'd been rendered speechless. Time and time again, he'd found he pushed people away; He had a habit of acting like a Smart-Alec which tended to get on people's nerves. But John? John had stuck by him, even after he'd hurt him time after time. He'd been a terrible friend and yet John still considered him his best, and now here he was, volunteering to risk his neck just to have Sherlock's back.

"Right...uh," he stuttered. What was wrong with him? He never stuttered. "Well, you might want to carry a gun. Just in case."

With a small smile, John lifted his jumper to reveal his gun already holstered.

"Let's get to work, then." 

The next few minutes were spent pouring over the video, the wall of photos, even the phone case until finally, clues started to come together. With an excited clap, Sherlock leapt of the coffee table, just as Natasha, Estelle and Thalia burst through the door.

"I know where she is!" he burst, at the same as the girls shouted "We know where she is!"

Simultaneously, they blurted out the address, then as one, rushed for the door. Sherlock was the first out and hailed for a taxi, his overactive mind still crowded with questions and the memory of Tara's promise to answer them. 

*

Flickering light flared from Tara's fingertips and the demon flinched back with a hiss. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, and she landed a solid kick against the monster's head. It had little effect, however with a wave of her glowing hands the monster was squealing backwards, a sizzling patch of seared black skin quickly healing over. Tara barely resisted cursing at the creature's supernatural healing. It was going to make her job so much harder. Taking off at a run, Tara bolted down the corridor, hoping to put some ground between her and the beast until she could think of a solution. Her abilities could be fickle: Sometimes she needed endless concentration to even make a spark, other days she had wreaked destructive havoc entirely by accident. It scared her; even she didn't know the full extent of what she could do.

Unfortunately, the demon chose that moment to restore proper gravity, causing Tara to tumble from her position on the ceiling. She stumbled in her landing, then winced as a sharp sting burned across her side. Looking down she found a set of claw rakes in her shirt, then breathed a sigh of relief as she realised the beast had barely grazed her. Too late, though, was she able to regain her footing and, with renewed fervour at the scent of fresh blood, the demon launched itself at her. She barely had time to gasp before it wrapped its taloned hand around her arm and sank its needle-like fangs deep into her neck.

Pain exploded before her vision as teeth pierced flesh and blood began to flow. With desperate gulps, the demon began to feed, and Tara's legs buckled beneath her. But she wasn't done fighting yet. Gritting her teeth and summoning the unnatural determination which had kept her alive for years, Tara wrenched herself from the monster's grip and gathered her energy around her hands. With a sweeping gesture from her glowing palms, the demon went flying backwards, writhing as flickering tendrils of fiery light enveloped its shadowy form. With a very final 'crunch' against the wall and an explosive splatter of thick black ooze, the demon dissolved and returned to its original dimension of imprisonment. Tara puffed heavily and slumped against the wall as a wave of exhaustion washed over her. Rolling her eyes, she realised it was high time she got out of this building before Mr Marshmallow Man Moriarty came to and decided he was rather miffed with her knocking him out. And so, palm pressed to her now aching neck, Tara trudged her way tiredly towards the stairs. 

*

Sherlock stepped from his taxi outside the abandoned warehouse complex just as the door slammed open. There was Tara, storming towards them, her hand clutched to the side of her neck and blood streaming through her red-stained fingers. Her clothes were torn and spattered with a mixture of black paint and bright blood and a waterfall of loose red hair hung from her dishevelled bun.

"You lot sure took your time," she huffed with a tired smirk. There was no sign of the timid, clumsy teen from earlier. With a slow, steadying breath, she lowered herself against the side of the taxi, but her legs gave out and she slid to the ground with a visible wince.

"Well, that sucked," she groaned. "But hey, at least I found out what killed those guys. Still working on the who though."

John emerged behind Sherlock, then caught sight of Tara slumped against the car.

"Oh my gosh, you're covered in blood!"

"Don't worry." She waved away his concerns. "Only most of it's mine."

At the look on John's face, she continued to Sherlock; "Let's just say your mate Moriarty has a bit of a blood nose."

"You punched Moriarty in the nose?" John gaped incredulously.

"No, I kicked him."

"Is he still there?" Sherlock cut in abruptly. She nodded slowly, unsure, and opened her mouth to answer, but by that time he had stopped listening. Leaving the others yelling after him, Sherlock took off sprinting. 

Sherlock slammed the door in frustration, an anguished shout forcing its way from his throat. The room was empty but for the melted handcuffs and a message scrawled across the floor in a mixture of black paint and blood:

Missed Me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I'm just publishing all my already written chapters at once at the moment, so I can't really think what to write in these notes, so I might just ease off until I've finished my newest chapter.  
Art links below:  
https://royalguardiansbooks.weebly.com/character-art.html


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're not out of the woods yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes at the end.   
Enjoy :)

"You took on a blood-sucking demon, by yourself, unarmed," Thalia observed sternly.

"Yeah, probably not my best idea, but would you rather I let these two become become demon food on the ceiling? "

John felt Tara shudder as he pressed a clean rag to her bloodied neck. As far as he could tell, she had lost a lot of blood - her already pale complexion had taken on a greyish tinge, her cheeks drained of what little colour they once possessed. Still, the bleeding had slowed at an abnormal rate and the kid seemed awake and alert.

"She has a point," Natasha grumbled.

John went to lift her tattered shirt to inspect the wounds beneath it and she flinched, apparently more of out of reflex than pain, and John saw why. Like her arm, Tara's body was peppered with scars - so many scars, for someone so young. More slashes clawing at her side, a knife scar to the ribs, bullet wounds speckling her torso. He started to wonder whether she really was the assassin, or the target.

"Trust you to escape before being rescued," Estelle chuckled. "You really do hate being a damsel in distress."

"Do you blame her?" Natasha cut in quietly. "The one time she did wait, no one came."

An uncomfortable silence settled over the group. Tara absently fingered the jagged scar across her wrist, having lost her brace in whatever struggle went on during her escape. 

"He got away."

Sherlock stormed towards them, agitated. John could tell already the usually mechanical detective was uncharacteristically peeved.

"Answers," he demanded of Tara. "You promised us answers, now give them."

"Sherlock," John began in a bid to calm his sociopathic friend, but at that moment Tara froze, her eyes wide and scanning. John looked around to see the other three girls in similar states. Natasha raised a slow finger to her lips in a signal for silence and Tara painfully inched her way up the side of her car to her unsteady feet. Then, in one fluid movement, Thalia whipped her sword from its scabbard and chaos broke loose. 

Three... no, four... maybe five slithering figures launched themselves at the group from all directions, their skin made of writhing blackness, with claws longer than a tiger's and eyes that glowed like molten metal. And suddenly he was on the the ground, numbly noticing that Tara was on top of him, shielding him from the creature's strike. John fumbled for his gun and let loose several shots which somehow hit their mark. He expected the thing to drop dead, but instead it just screeched, black blood like paint dripping from quickly closing wounds. Its lifeless eyes found his and it lunged, then stopped dead as a silver knife embedded itself in its forehead. Natasha leapt into his field of view, ripping the blade from the creature's body, but even that didn't stop its progress until Thalia swept in with her blade and decapitated it with one clean stroke. John heard himself shout, and there was Tara again, hauling him with more strength than he knew she possessed to the side of the car where he was shielded. 

Still numb from the initial shock, John felt his wartime training kick in and he forced himself to get a grip and look around. Estelle had produced what looked like a silver rope which apparently doubled as a whip, as she was lashing it around the beasts' limbs to deflect her strikes whilst shrieking like a possessed banshee. Thalia was a whirlwind with her sword, but even her attacks did minimal damage unless she managed to sever a head or some other important limb. Natasha was armed only with a set of minuscule throwing knives, which did little to slow the path of the black-skinned creatures. Tara, however, was completely unarmed, and Sherlock? Sherlock was frozen just feet away from John, his eyes wide and barely seeing. John had seen him like this only once before - in Baskervilles when they thought they had seen some sort of devil hound, and Sherlock nearly lost his mind trying to comprehend it. 

"Sherlock!" Tara cried from across the parking lot. How she had got there so fast, John had no idea. "The knife! Use my knife!"

Sherlock took a moment to respond, and for a moment John was worried he hadn't heard her. But, as one of the creatures dove towards him and shout rose to John's lips, he reached into his coat and drew Tara's blade. With a flash of silver, the beast exploded into a shower of black paint - black blood - leaving Sherlock standing both bewildered and soaked from head to toe. 

In his shock, John failed to notice another beast slithering his way until the glint of its talons caught his eye, and suddenly Tara was there again, swinging her entire body weight around the creature's head and flinging to the ground. The previously clumsy teen flipped agilely around the floundering beast, landing kicks and strikes around the creature's swings and somehow forcing it backwards away from him. Then, with a quick, tentative glance at John, her hands burst into flames.

That was when John finally screamed. Tara was a blur of movement and flickering light, sparks flying from her fingers. The beasts flinched away from her every gesture, until, gritting her teeth, she splayed her fingers and snapped her palms outwards. A wave of energy burst from her body, tearing through the parking-lot in a ring of glowing light. It ripped through everything. Around her, the glowing-eyed creatures exploded, spraying the car-park with black goo. Even the car went flying, landing with a deafening crunch as the front end crumpled against the concrete. And yet, everyone else was left standing, unharmed, as though the wave just washed harmlessly over them.

Silence. All eyes were on Tara, whose flickering hands had faded to their usual, non-flaming state. She was panting, her chest heaving as though every breath as an effort. Nervously, she glanced at the crushed taxi with surprise, then around the car park at the carnage she had wreaked.

"What the heck just happened?" John breathed.

Tara started to stutter out a response, but was cut off by Estelle:

"That was AWESOME!!!!!"

It was then that Tara keeled over sideways with a 'fwump' to the black-soaked ground.

"Aaaaaand she's passed out again," Thalia sighed. 

*

Tara was pretty sure the world was not supposed to be spinning. Well, not like this, anyway. The last thing she remembered clearly was making it out of the warehouse, but everything after that was kind of a blur. She groaned, rubbing the tender wounds on her neck, which had since been cleaned and covered. She was coated from head to toe in demon blood, the dark, thick substance mingling with the deep red stains that coated her shirt. Once her eyes adjusted, she realised she was lying on the couch back in 221B Baker Street.

"She needs a hospital. I may be a doctor, but there's only so much I can do."

Muffled voices met her ears. She tried to sit up, but a fresh wave of nausea washed over her.

"No hospitals. She's burnt herself out. They won't be able to help with that."

Tara felt the world shift around her and with a thud, she realised she'd rolled off the couch. A tired groan left her throat and all eyes swung towards her.

"And she's awake. Welcome back to the land of the living, Noodle Arms."

With a weary smile, Tara realised who was speaking: Thalia's nickname for her was unmistakable. 

It took a while, but Tara's head eventually stopped spinning and she was able to fully take in her surroundings. Her sister was there, as were her friends Estelle and Thalia. John was pacing in the corner and Sherlock was silent in his chair in the corner, staring with his hands clasped before him at the map of photos pinned to his wall. Every one of them was soaked in the black goop that was demon blood, and the memories came rushing back to her.

"Oh mushrooms," Tara muttered quietly. Vaguely she noted Thalia's chuckles at her trademark creative non-cursing. "What did I do?"

"Ah." Natasha's eyes widened as she realised where Tara was headed. "You weren't aiming for all of them, were you?"

"It... It just happens."

"Sorry, what 'just happens'? What am I missing?" John crossed his arms, frustrated.

"At a guess, I'd say Tara was simply trying to force that one demon away from you, John," Natasha explained gravely. "But lately her powers have been a bit... unpredictable, and she ended up wiping out the entire parking lot of monsters."

"It was freaking awesome," Estelle nodded sagely.

"Which brings me to my next question," John continued, and Tara could see he was barely holding himself together. "What the bl-"

"Language," Tara cautioned.

"- Just happened?!"

Tara sighed deeply and glanced at Sherlock who still hadn't moved or spoken since she'd woken up.

"Oh, and in case you're wondering, he hasn't said a word to anyone since the parking lot, so you'd better start explaining right now before he drives himself mad trying to work things out for himself."

Tara flinched. John had this scary sort of half smile which suggested he was this close to snapping, and something told her she would not want to be on the receiving end of his anger.

"I... I don't know how to explain things in a way you'll both understand," she answered quietly. "I did, however, make you a promise to answer your questions as best as I could. So, ask away." 

*

"So, let me get this straight: You are part of an elite force of teenage kids charged with protecting the world from supernatural threats," John repeated.

"And the tattoos on your wrists mark you as one of these 'Guardians', but the Mark itself is actually a sentient magical force that likes to send you on random and often life-threatening missions and as such, few of you are expected to live much past the age of 18, which is why you're all so young and covered in scars," Sherlock continued blankly, all in one breath. He'd broken his silence halfway through Tara's mind blowing explanation, although John could see he was still struggling to take it all in.

"Yup, that's accurate," Tara confirmed awkwardly.

"And so you," John pointed to Tara, "are pyrokinetic and can manipulate certain energies?" 

Tara nodded.

"Estelle, you can control ice and crystals?" Even out of his own mouth, the concept sounded insane. "Thalia, storms and electricity, and Natasha, water?" 

"Pretty much," Natasha confirmed. 

"And those really were demons that attacked us in the parking lot?"

"Yep. Nasty ones at that. They like sneaking up on people through walls or on the roof. Most people don't know they're there until they strike." 

Sherlock was silent for a good long minute. Finally;

"How did you do it?" 

The question hung heavy in the air, Sherlock's tone deadly quiet. John sent a questioning look his way.

"Do what?" Tara replied tentatively. 

"Slip us the drugs. I haven't hallucinated this badly since Baskervilles and those demon Hounds." He clasped his hands behind his back and set his intense gaze on a very confused Tara. "So how did you do it? Did you slip something into one of those test tubes this morning which would have dispersed the hallucinatory gas upon combustion?" 

Tara gaped, clearly not quite sure how to respond. 

"What I told you is the truth, Sherlock," she replied evenly. "There is far more to the world around you than you know -"

"Oh, stop lying," Sherlock snapped. Tara flinched backwards, instinctively raising her arm to cover herself. Sherlock's eyes widened momentarily. It took her several shaky breaths to steady herself and John saw a fiery steel settle over her eyes.

"I am telling the truth. You just refuse to accept it. But I warn you: once your eyes have been opened to the world of magic, you cannot close them again." 

Sherlock opened his mouth again, but was cut off as a new voice entered the conversation.

"She's right, baby brother." Mycroft Holmes stepped through the door into 221B. "Magic does exist."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for anyone that's curious, Estelle's "shrieking like a possessed banshee" is the only way I could think of describing the sound my friend Mira makes as she sprints across the soccer field, kicking at everything in sight. She used to yell "Die!", but has since taken to making pterodactyl noises.   
Art at   
https://royalguardiansbooks.weebly.com/character-art.html  
I promise at some stage I will upload some art of Estelle and any other missing characters, but, uh... I need to get round to drawing it first.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft arrives to add some clarity, while two new figures approach the king of crime.

"Microsoft?"

Mycroft sighed inwardly. Tara never could get his name right.

"My name is Mycroft, child. MY-CROFT."

The girl squeaked out a string of apologies, thoroughly embarrassed. The other girls just sniggered.

"Mycroft?" It was John. "What are you doing here? Do you two know each other?"

"Unfortunately, yes." He was well aware he was giving one of his perpetual sour looks, but with the trouble these girls gave him, they should be used to it by now.

"What do you mean 'Magic does exist', Mycroft?" Sherlock hissed. Of course his brother Sherlock would be over analysing things.

"You weren't drugged, Sherlock. You actually did see... whatever it was you just saw. I can only assume that the Guardians' presence here means your introduction to the world of magic was rather bizarre and most likely alarmingly weird. Yes, Estelle Fir, I am looking at you."

The nutty teen tried and failed to feign innocence, however a menacing quack from within her coat gave her away.

"Demons," Tara cut in flatly. "I'm afraid Sherlock and John's introduction to magic was less of a 'gently ease them in' and more of a 'throw them straight into the deep end'. They got attacked by a hoard of demons." Then, a little more sheepishly; "And also saw me use my powers."

"Ah."

"Hold on!" John interrupted. "Back-pedal to where you know these guys?"

With a long-suffering sigh, Mycroft explained everything.

The Gifted Individuals initiative had, for a while, been under the supervision of an agency called S.H.I.E.L.D, however, after some rather messy business involving some undercover Nazis and a 95 year old man with a metal Frisbee, it was decided S.H.I.E.L.D wasn't quite suited to monitoring such a program alone. And so, Mycroft Holmes and his secret services were introduced to the Guardians, and life became so, so much weirder.

Created to allow the Guardians and members of their Honorary force to operate with authority in the regular world, the Gifted Individuals Initiative had been a thorn in Mycroft's side since Day One. Because on Day One, Mycroft had been given something no self-respecting genius sociopath wants to be given: A reality check. Magic, as it turned out, was real, and had existed right under everyone's noses for aeons.

This was, of course, a massive discovery. However, after about an hour of thought, eating cake and reading up on the history of supernatural events, Mycroft was able to wrap his head around the existence of wizardry. But if finding out there's more to the world than you know wasn't enough, Mycroft then had to put up with the agents themselves.

Unfortunately, even as the head of Britain's secret service, Mycroft didn't have the power to fire the insufferable teens. Apparently, only the Mark could do that. Which meant, he was stuck with them.

Tara Willows was (surprisingly) actually fairly competent, which meant she was the most called upon for missions. If you wanted something done cleanly, Tara was the girl. There was fire behind her usually clumsy nature. She had a long fuse, but if you pushed her too far, well... She didn't need her powers to burn you to the ground.

Estelle Fir, on the other hand... Well, if Mycroft had been left to figure things out based on his research alone, he would have easily mistaken her for an entity of chaos. She had a habit of running into battle while screeching like a deranged banshee possessed by a demon pterodactyl, and about zero form or discipline when it came to fighting. Her preferred method was to run in the general direction of the enemy, scream and kick at everything in sight. Somehow, to everyone's unending confusion, this method was actually pretty effective, as long as you didn't care about having any degree of stealth. Estelle was, as you could guess, the main source of Mycroft's headaches.

Thalia Griffon flirted with anything vaguely humanoid and, despite her intimidating appearance, was considered the 'Mum friend' of the group. She was the eldest of the Guardians, and the only one in centuries to have survived past age eighteen. Possibly it had something to do with her skill with a sword, matched only by Tara and her knife.

Natasha Willows, despite her calm appearance and water-based powers, had the shortest temper of the lot, often aggravated by her protective instincts for her sister. Whoever said water was weak was an idiot.

And that was just four of them.

All in all, they were an undisciplined, unmanageable congregation of emotional, hyperactive teens with an impeccable knack for getting themselves into trouble, and somehow managing to save the wold while doing so. Which was why, when anything supernatural was involved, the Gifted Individuals Imitative was who you called.

So that's what Mycroft did. With suspicions his brother may have been about to stumble upon a demonic-murder case, Mycroft sent in the most competent Guardian he could find: Tara. 

"You knew?" Sherlock hissed, and Mycroft barely resisted rolling his eyes at his brother's predictability. "This whole time, you knew. You knew I had a sister, you knew magic existed?What else have you been keeping from me?"

Thalia moved to lean on Tara's shoulder, which Mycroft noticed doubled as an attempt to keep the injured teen on her feet.

"Look, boys. As much as I don't want to interrupt all this brotherly love," Her sarcasm was blindingly obvious. "We have a job to do: Finding out who hired the Moriarty guy to help with his demon summoning, and taking them both down."

"About that." Mycroft's brain had been whirring since news of Moriarty met his ears, and he had constructed a plan. One that would need both Sherlock and his clueless blogger's help, as well as the insufferable Guardians. 

*

The phone sat heavy in Mendax's hand. Pink. Why did it have to be bright pink?

"So," he said gruffly. "Any idea what we're supposed to do with this?"

Alexis Mae shrugged. Her mass of white hair whispered against her suit with the movement.

"Wait for it to ring, I suppose." 

Moriarty. Criminal consultant. That was really all they knew about him. You wanted a crime committed and didn't want to get caught? You call Moriarty, and he'd provide you with a practically fool proof plan. Or at least, that's what they'd been told. And so when the shockingly pink phone finally rang, Mendax didn't know what to expect.

"So. I hear you want to commit a crime." A smooth, lilting Irish accent sounded, momentarily taking Mendax by surprise.

"Um... Yes. We want..." He scratched his head. "We want to steal something."

"OK, you're going to have to be a bit more specific."

Panic quickly flared in Mendax's chest and he held the receiver away from him, turning to Alexis and frantically mouthing: What do I say!!!????

Mona Lisa!? She mouthed back, flailing her arms as if to say heck if I know?

"We wanna steal the Mona Lisa!" Mendax blurted, then realised his mistake and closed his eyes, letting out a long sigh through his nose at his own stupidity.

"You do know that's in France, right?" the voice said, its tone clearly resigned to the fact it may well be dealing with idiots.

"Which... is why we need your help!" Mendax recovered clumsily. He heard Alexis face-palm behind him.

The voice was quiet for a good minute, and Mendax feared they'd seriously screwed things up. Then:

"I'll call you back."

The phone went silent. 

"You know, for a guy whose name literally means 'Liar', you suck at lying." Alexis glared at him with those disconcerting pale eyes. Her dead-straight white hair was beginning to curl at the ends and Mendax knew that the next time he turned around, she would likely be part-way through a shift. Even more disconcerting than her eyes was her ability to move fluidly between her forms: At any point in time she could be at any stage between a change. He knew that eventually, those eyes would darken to brown, her white hair would revert to its chocolate corkscrews, and he would once again turn around and scream when her change inevitably caught him by surprise. Again.

"Well I wasn't the one that suggested we steal the Mona Lisa," Mendax snapped.

"I panicked."

"Yeah, well, now we might blown our chances. From what I hear, the guy's not dumb. He's sure to figure something's up. I only hope those fake backgrounds you made hold up if he decides to look into us."

"They'll hold," she scowled. "I'm a shapeshifter. I know how to fake an identity." 

Hours whiled away. Mendax resorted to playing noughts and crosses with the surly shifter on the hideout floor. Then tossing pebbles at the wall. Then sleeping.  
"How long has it been now?" he grumbled.  
"15 minutes," Alexis replied grumpily. Mendax let out a long, dramatic groan and went back to piffing stuff at the wall. It was going to be a long night.

Just when Mendax started to give up hope of ever being called back, the brightly hued phone began to buzz. The voice on the other end got straight to business.  
"I've decided your case is interesting enough to hold my attention. Finding a way to steal the Mona Lisa without stepping foot in France should provide me with some entertainment," the voice drawled. "But before I get to work on my end, I need you to prove to me you're capable of pulling something like this off."  
Mendax felt the colour drain from his cheeks and he shot a worried glance at Alexis. The voice continued:  
"I have something I need done. Consider it an exchange: your services for mine. Directions will be coming through as soon as this call ends. Follow them, and I will help you with your great heist."  
"What is the task?" Mendax asked cautiously. Years of experience had taught him to be wary of agreeing to something before knowing what it was.  
"I want you to take out Tara Willows."

Behind him, Alexis seemed to be choking. Mendax couldn't help it. The wording was far to convenient.  
"Are we talking, like, on a date, or as a sniper," he smirked into the phone. "Cos I'm up for either."  
Alexis punched him in the arm, though it did nothing to wipe the grin off his face. He could almost hear the man on the other end pinching the bridge of his nose.  
"You have 12 hours. Don't fail me, or... Well, you can probably guess what happens."  
The phone cut off once more.  
"So, the usual stakes then," Mendax said flatly.  
"You're an idiot. You know that, right?" Alexis grouched.  
"I am well aware of the fact, thank you."  
Silence. The phone beeped piercingly, jarring them both from their silent starring match. Sure enough, there was a message, carrying their instructions. The pair read them through carefully, then moved to gather their equipment.

"We're not actually going to kill Tara Willows, right?" Alexis quickly glanced at him as he folded his rifle into its case.  
"Of course not!" Mendax rolled his eyes.  
"Then why are you packing sniper's gear?"  
"Because," Mendax took a deep breath. "Moriarty thinks we're incompetent idiots. He's not just going to send us."  
Alexis' eyes widened as she caught on.  
"He'll send a follow up team," she realised. "To make sure the job's done." He nodded. "So, we're not gonna kill her. We're gonna save her life."  
"Yup."  
Alexis gave a long-suffering sigh and completed her shift into her more human form. It was best not to have entirely white skin and hair when trying to blend in with a crowd.  
"Come on you starry-eyes romantic," she beckoned, her now chestnut curls bouncing. "Let's go warn your girlfriend half the criminal underworld wants her dead."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a sniper on the roof, and things go badly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 3 of my mass upload. I have about two more chapters after this before I actually have to get back to writing.  
Enjoy :)

Another body. Another witness.  
Lestrade led Sherlock through the fresh crime-scene as he looked around with open eyes, torn between wishing he'd known the truth earlier, and wishing he'd never known at all.  
And yet with the aid of new information, the pieces of the case began to fit themselves together.

Once again, Tara's magically disruptive presence in the room sent the body crashing to the floor with a heavy squelch. Blankly wiping a spatter of blood from his cheek, Sherlock began his deductions.

Middle-aged man, married, but not happily. Suspected his wife of cheating. Owned two dogs and a black cat. Killed in the last hour and was taken by surprise.  
And of course, a there was a hidden black light tattoo inked on the back of his neck. So a warlock, then. Part of whatever 'coven' had managed to tick off a demon-summoning maniac.

Sherlock sent Tara to chat with the witness, already sure of the account they would give. It seemed he had been wrong. It really was a demon who had killed these men. And almost killed him.  
Quickly he shook away the thought. He was determined to get to the bottom of this case, mind-boggling discoveries or not. He did not like to be beaten.

Finding no new clues, even with the extra knowledge, Sherlock decided to join Tara in questioning the witness. He was an elderly man, about eighty or so, with grizzled white hair and pale blue eyes. But there was something off about him. A few stray hairs clung to his clothes, only they weren't a dog's, or cat's, rather that of an over-sized white wolf. Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

Brand new clothes. Clean shaven, but no signs of having shaved recently. No lingering smell of soap, or age, cologne, or anything. Shoes barely worn. Generic. No brands. No wedding ring, or tan lines of jewellery or a watch. Nothing but a few stray wolf hairs on his clothes. No crumbs from lunch, or stains from breakfast. It was almost as if this man hadn't existed until only moments ago. There was nothing to distinguish what kind of life he'd lived, what kind of person he was - nothing.

Tara pulled out her sketchbook and pencil and settled in front of the witness, just as Sherlock opened his mouth to question them himself. But with a lightning fast movement, the old man latched his hand around Tara's wrist, sending her pencil clattering to the floor. Before even Sherlock could move, the man was on his feet, spinning the teen around to pin her arm behind her back, his free arm at her throat. In an instant, three guns were trained upon the man as John and Lestrade appeared beside Sherlock.

"Let her go," Sherlock demanded, balancing his quaking arm with a steady hand on the gun barrel. The old man raised an eyebrow, unperturbed as he took in the line of weapons trained upon him.

"Do you mind pointing those things somewhere else", he said and both Sherlock and Lestrade's aim faltered at the sound of a young woman's voice in the place of an elderly man's. John, Sherlock realised with a pang of admiration, kept his arm strong despite the shock, and repeated the order calmly and clearly.

"Hey, it's cool, guys. We're friends," he (or was it she?) vouched.

"You could have fooled me," Tara scoffed from her position in a semi-choke-hold. The old man rolled his eyes in a shockingly accurate impression of a teenage girl and before their very eyes, began to change. It happened in barely ten seconds: The lines of age softened in his face and the colour drained from his skin as his white hair lengthened from his scalp, until before them stood a young albino woman. Then, just as quickly, colour washed into her features and her hair darkened and curled, leaving them pointing their guns at a tanned young adult. Lestrade's weapon clattered loudly to the ground and Tara flinched sharply.

"What? You guys never met a shapeshifter before?" The woman cocked her head mockingly, batting her eyelids in a patronising impression of innocence. Sherlock didn't stop to try and rationalise what he was seeing - he couldn't, not if he didn't want to slip back into his own mind and let the world continue on around him.

With a dramatic flourish, the woman released her arm from around Tara's neck, sending her stumbling forwards a step. Finally able to turn around and see her attacker, Tara balked.

"Hey there, Tiny," the woman grinned.

"Alexis Mae?" Tara's expression passed quickly from confusion, to anger, then to annoyance. "What..."

"I had to get your attention somehow," she shrugged shamelessly. Sherlock and John exchanged a glance and lowered their weapons slightly, but Lestrade was still staring in abstract horror. Sherlock hissed at him under his breath, telling him to pull himself together. He knew it sounded callous - unfair, even - especially since he himself was struggling with the same realisations, but as much as he'd hate to admit, Sherlock needed Lestrade alert and by his side. He trusted the man to have his back. So if a little rough-handling was what it took to get him back to himself, then Sherlock was happy to oblige. 

"Why?" Sherlock demanded coolly.

"Because I have to warn her," Alexis replied. She locked eyes with Tara and said quite seriously: "Moriarty wants you dead. And I doubt he'll stop sending people until it's done."

"Well that's just great," Tara grumbled. 

* 

"So what's the plan?" John asked again. "In English, this time?"

They were all crammed into a tiny window booth in a corner-street coffee shop - John, Sherlock, Lestrade and Tara, waiting for assassins to come and murder the tenacious red-head.

"Yes, Sherlock, I think you still have some things that need explaining," Lestrade grouched.

"Moriarty is still alive, magic exists, people are coming to kill your new sketch intern, who is actually a super-powered spy for a non-corporal force called the Mark, " Sherlock reeled of rapidly, too preoccupied looking out the window to give anyone much attention. John sighed. Sometimes the detective could retreat so far into his mind, the people around him seemed to blur out of focus. John remembered times when Sherlock had gone hours talking to an empty chair, not realising John wasn't even in the apartment.

"Sherlock, the plan," John repeated.

Sherlock seemed to shake himself from his stuporous trance. He blinked a few times, then met John's gaze with quickly widening eyes.

"Oh, right," he stuttered, jolted from thought. "We use Tara as bait -"

"Woohoo, here we go again," Tara lifelessly griped with the least enthusiastic air-punch John had ever seen.

"- To draw out Moriarty's assassins. Then Alexis and Mycroft's other undercover agent will do their job and stop Tara from actually getting killed -"

"Thanks. That fills me with so much confidence."

"You know, you are so much more sarcastic than I first thought," Lestrade deadpanned.

"Why, thank-you," she replied with exaggerated false cheeriness. "It comes with the multiple assassination attempts."

"Then," Sherlock continued, "Lestrade can arrest our would-be assassins, we take them back to the station and use them to find Moriarty. That plan simple enough for you lot?"

John tried not to feel patronised by Sherlock's jibes. It did help having a simplified explanation to go off, especially since Sherlock had spoken so fast the first time none of them had understood a word.

"Right," Sherlock nodded. "Now we spread out and pretend we don't know each other."

Lestrade had cleared the cafe upon Sherlock's command, so that only the barrister (Alexis Mae in disguise) remained.

"Four people is a little unconvincing for a cafe patronage, don't you think?" John mused as they took their seats across the shop.

"How about seven?"

The orotund voice of Thalia Griffon met John's ears as the coffee shop door opened with a ring. Natasha, Estelle and Thalia entered and strode towards the counter.

"One triple espresso with an extra shot of caffeine, please," Estelle grinned. "Those assassins won't know what hit them." 

The stage was set. Tara sat alone in the window booth, the rest of the group spread around the shop, watching for the cue to act. It wasn't long before a stranger entered the shop, looked around shadily and ordered a coffee. John eyed him warily as he waited. He knew he would never be as good at Sherlock, but it was too tempting not to give his own basic deductions a go.

A bulge in his jacket: He was carrying a gun. There was also a glint of metal at his boot. Maybe a hidden knife?

Sure enough, the man strode past the empty booths until he reached Tara's.

"Mind if I sit? I love the window booths." His grating voice jolted Tara from her thoughts and with a surprised squeak she swept over her milkshake into her lap. Across the room Natasha visibly winced.

"Oh, gee, sorry," he apologised awkwardly. "I didn't mean to..."

"Oh, no, it's OK," Tara stuttered. Her eyes momentarily flicked to the bulge in his coat, then across to Sherlock, who gave a tiny, inconspicuous nod. "You just startled me. I was just leaving, anyway, so, uh... the window booth's all yours."

With clear reluctance, she headed outside. The man slipped his hand into his coat.

*

Mendax busied himself assembling his rifle. It felt all too familiar in his hands, like an old friend whom he met with contempt. He hated how right it felt, how calmly his heart beat as he peered through the sight and set his crosshairs on the fiery red head of Tara Willows. He could see everything from his rooftop nook - the group of people gathered inconspicuously in the coffee shop, Tara sitting idly in the cafe window. He watched as a stranger approached her, watched as she spilt her drink and rose to leave the shop, the stranger in close tow. He watched as she came outside and the stranger pulled a gun behind her back. His cue came. Mendax pulled the trigger.

The gunshot echoed off every building in the street. His target fell, but there was no spray of blood, no cries of pain. Tara stared at the unconscious assassin at her feet before her eyes found Mendax's. She returned his small smile as he held up a small glowing disk like the one attached to the barrel of his gun: A Stun Adaptor. Part of the Gifted Individuals toolkit.  
"I've got your back," he said, not bothering to shout. With her ears she'd be able to hear him from across the street.

A group of people rushed from the cafe; two men with guns drawn, several of Tara's fellow Guardians (Estelle looking rather forlorn at not being needed to kick the guy's butt), Alexis under the guise of a barrister and a tall curly-haired man in a long blue coat whom Mendax assumed was the detective Sherlock Holmes. His analysing gaze locked onto Mendax and for a moment it appeared as though he was looking straight through him. One of the men with greying hair and a crumpled suit slapped a pair of handcuffs on the would-be assassin.  
"So that's it?" Mendax heard him ask. "That was pretty simple compared to your explanation, Sherlock."  
"Well it worked, didn't it? We caught him."  
"It does seem a little... Well.. Easy? Doesn't it?" Tara added.  
"I do have to agree," Sherlock conceded.

Mendax packed away his rifle. He was glad for the tiny glowing disks that could turn any firearm into a stun device. He had enough blood on his hands without adding any more bodies to his tally. Slinging the rifle bag over his shoulder, he leapt from the rooftop onto the street below, landing just feet from the group. The fall would have been enough to break any normal human's legs, but then again he wasn't exactly human, let alone normal.

"I scouted the area beforehand," Mendax said as he adjusted his shoulder strap. "There was no one else here."  
"No," Sherlock muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "If Moriarty didn't trust you enough to just send you, he would have sent more than one backup. He'd have seen all this coming..." Sherlock stopped dead and turned to face Mendax. "This was a test," he murmured gravely. "He wanted to see if he could trust you to carry out his orders. You just failed."

Whatever Sherlock was about to say next was cut off by a second gunshot behind Mendax. His breath hitched in his throat as pain lanced through his body. Another sniper, he thought numbly. Only this time there was a spray of blood. Mendax swore violently, his voice cracking as blood rose in his throat and a dark stain spread far too quickly across his chest.  
"Here we go again," he choked, and collapsed into endless darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art link:  
https://royalguardiansbooks.weebly.com/character-art.html


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Bandaids don't fix bullet holes" - Taylor Swift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. I have not been checking these chapters for mistakes before mass uploading, so If anyone spots anything, please let me know and I'll get straight to fixing it.   
Enjoy :)

Tara was drenched in blood that wasn't hers, lugging a guy twice her size up the stairs by the armpits. That guy happened to be her now very dead boyfriend. It didn't help that she was taking the stairs backwards with her habitual clumsiness, or that she was knee-high to a grasshopper hauling a 6'0 lanky corpse up three stories. It also didn't help that Sherlock was being absolutely no help whatsoever. John had gone to fetch a first-aid kit on Tara's request, while Sherlock had mumbled something about calculating her strength to size ratio while she worked, and proceeded to watch her sweat. Eventually he came to the conclusion that she did, in fact, have noodle arms.

Finally she made it to the landing of 221C, before promptly tripping backwards on the top step and ending up crushed by Mendax's limp body. Behind her, Alexis laughed, once again returned to her regular human form.

"Where were you while I was dragging this up the stairs?" Tara bit, her voice muffled under Mendax's weight.

"Watching you suffer," Alexis replied shamelessly without missing a beat.

"Why don't you do something useful and go help John find the medical kit?" Tara heard the edge cutting into her tone. To be fair, she'd put up with a lot of rubbish the past few days. Her usually long temper was wearing just a little bit thin.

"Geez, someone's getting a bit snappy. Like a couple of Band Aid's are going to help him anyway."

The surly shifter quickly changed into a pale white bird and flew over her and Sherlock's heads, landing back in human form on the stairwell below. Cheerfully she flashed an obscene hand gesture and pirouetted out of sight.

"I am going to assume that this is a normal occurrence when dealing with you people," Sherlock deduced, apparently trying his hardest to just accept the weirdness of the magical world.

"Pretty much," Tara confirmed tiredly. 

Tara gently lowered Mendax's body onto the neat pile of pillows she'd arranged on her apartment floor and tried to settle his limp limbs in a way that at least looked comfortable. Her blood-stained clothing stuck awkwardly to her body as she moved. John entered with the first-aid kit, Alexis in tow, and surveyed Tara's makeshift bed and the corpse that lay upon it.

"I really don't see how this is going to help." John raised the kit sympathetically. "I hate to break it to you, Tara, but your friend got shot through the heart by a sniper bullet. A few stitches are not going to fix that."

"I know that," Tara puffed, slumping down next to Mendax after the effort of dragging him. "But things are a bit more complicated when it comes to this guy. Mendax doesn't exactly... Stay dead."

"What?"

"Ok, let me explain." Tara grappled for the right words. Mendax's 'condition' wasn't exactly a common one in the world of magic either. His father was immortal and his mother a reincarnate, which meant Mendax developed some rather complicated genetic qualities when it came to death.   
"When Mendax dies, his consciousness is separated from his body while his body continues to heal itself at an accelerated rate until, well, he's not dead anymore," Tara explained. "The worse his body is damaged, the longer it takes for him to regenerate."

"Sooo... He's not actually dead," John blinked.

"Oh, no, he is well and truly dead right now." She heard her voice crack. "But in a few days he'll be fine. Physically, at least."   
She didn't mention that having your consciousness ripped from your body and imprisoned in the dimension of banishment called Oblivion until your body regenerated could leave some rather lasting mental scars. That could be a talk for another day.

"That still doesn't explain this." John hoisted the first-aid box.

"She wants you to stitch up the dead guy's wounds so he can heal faster," Alexis cut in. John sighed and got to work.

*

"I need a shower," Tara murmured, tucking a blanket over her friend's body so he'd be comfortable when he woke up. Sherlock was surprised at how brittle her voice sounded. The blanket was too short to cover his legs, so she made do by leaving his feet poking out with a sigh before making her subdued trek to the bathroom to wash off his blood. Alexis excused herself, muttering something about checking in with Mycroft now that they're cover was blown, leaving Sherlock with a lot to think over.

Moriarty was back and open for business, only this time he'd decided to branch out into a field Sherlock knew nothing about. If he was going to be able to compete with the King of Crime, Sherlock needed to learn as much about the world of magic as he could. He was going to need a whole new wing in his mind palace for this.

"I need more information," Sherlock announced as Tara returned from her shower. "And right now you are my only available source regarding the magical world." She had with her a second duffel bag, different to the one Sherlock had seen before, and was pulling layers of what appeared to be tactical gear from it. At his raised eyebrows, she shrugged and answered;  
"What? You don't think I'd leave everything out for you to snoop through?" Pulling a thick long-sleeve shirt over her green singlet, Tara asked; "What do you want to know?"

"Everything you can tell me." 

"Magic requires two things at all times," Tara reeled off as she donned her layers of gear. "Concentration and energy. Without both, you're pretty much screwed."

She continued explaining as much as she could think of as she fastened buckles on holsters and tightened the laces in her wrist brace, and Sherlock began to catalogue her words.

"So there's elves and pixies and dryads, and they all come under the umbrella term faeries," Tara continued, hopping up and down precariously as she tried to pull on her boot. "And you have your witches, warlocks, wizards, sorcerers, etcetera. Collectively, we're all called Wielders."

They were simply passing the time until Lestrade had finished questioning the would-be assassin, but Sherlock was using that time as well as he could. Tara too, seemed to be making use of the momentary lapse of action to better prepare herself for another fight, zipping a sturdy-looking vest over her layers.

"It's not bullet-proof, unfortunately," she said, apparently noticing Sherlock's watchful gaze. "But it's made to protect against most monster attacks. You know; claw swipes, scratches, teeth. Should work for demons as well."

"Is that how you really got those scars?" John asked quietly from across the room. She looked at him cautiously, but Sherlock could see an answer forming on her lips.

"A greater demon named Destro," she answered, more calmly than expected. She averted her gaze, busying herself instead with strapping an empty sheath to her side. "We have what you might call a history. Last year he almost killed me. So yes, that's how I really got those scars. Some of them, at least."

There was something about the way she said 'almost' that tugged at Sherlock's mind, but Tara's voice quickly delayed his thoughts as she reached out her hand.

"I'd like my knife back, please," she said with a small smile. With a small amount of surprise, Sherlock felt the light weight of the strange silver blade in his coat pocket. With all that had gone on in the last few hours, Sherlock had forgotten it was even there, which was odd, because Sherlock Holmes rarely forgot things. Unless it was to buy milk. Or that the Earth revolved around the Sun. This business with magic had been messing with his head far worse than he'd care to admit. He handed it over, noticing how the small hilt fit perfectly in her hand and the precise, practised movements with which she sheathed it by her side. 

The group was out the door even before Lestrade gave the call, and even though Lestrade couldn't get a word out of the suspect, Sherlock didn't need him talking. The man was an open book. From the brand of his watch, the cut of his hair, the tan-lines round his wrists - Sherlock could tell this man's life story in merely seconds. And it wasn't just personal information he unwittingly divulged. For a professional assassin, the man was terrible at covering his tracks. Evidence of his movements were painted all across his person, and the detective's deductions revealed enough that even Lestrade was singing his praise afterwards. Well, maybe not singing. More along the lines of a begrudging mumble. The point is, the praise was there. 

Their 'team', as Estelle insisted upon calling it, was much smaller than Sherlock would have hoped, given the circumstances. As someone who preferred working alone, (with the exception of his favourite blogger, of course) it was unusual for Sherlock to want the company of others. (They'd just get in the way, he often told himself.) However, seeing as he was entering new territory regarding demons and magic, and Moriarty himself was likely to have some rather nasty backup on hand courtesy of his client, Sherlock was hoping for as many magically adept companions as were available. As it turns out, the Guardians were busy people. Much to their regret, both Natasha and Thalia had been called away on a Mark mission soon after Sherlock's deductions. This entailed a lot of cursing on Thalia's part, some glowing light and the sudden disappearance of both teens from the middle of Sherlock's apartment. Lestrade had nearly fainted. Alexis had been called back to base after her cover had been blown, Mendax was, well... dead, and Estelle was set to stay with him in Tara's apartment until he became... not dead. Which left just the three of them: Sherlock, John and Tara, who, despite John's urgent suggestion for medical attention, claimed she was fine while Sherlock pointed out that she was the only available wielder they had. Granted, colour had washed back into her sallow cheeks at what could be described as a supernatural rate after her recent blood-loss, and she was already dressed for the occasion. 

And so they went, the three of them, in a small yellow taxi to the outskirts of London, where Sherlock's deductions had led him to believe Moriarty lay waiting, a rather devious trap set for the detective and his companions and one which Sherlock was determined to outwit. The game was back on, and this time he intended to win. 

*

Moriarty knew Sherlock was coming. He knew even before word got to him that his assassins had failed. He even knew they would fail, which was why he'd positioned a sniper on a nearby roof. You could never have too many contingency plans around Sherlock Holmes, and it appeared Tara Willows was similarly slippery. Shame that young Mendax had to die. He really was looking forward to plotting a Mona Lisa heist.

Raspy chanting echoed from the other room, followed by a rather horrid splattering noise that sent shivers running up Moriarty's spine. That wasn't necessarily a bad thing: Moriarty did love a few good chills to set the murderous mood.

"You might want to dial it back on the demon summoning a bit," Moriarty drawled lazily, sauntering into the black-spattered room. "You don't want to summon something nasty by accident."

"I know what I'm doing," snarled his client. Moriarty didn't normally meet with this clients in person. He used to prefer more clandestine methods, like video chats, or writing messages on glass walls inside the Crown Jewels vault. But after a few years inactive in his criminal duties, Moriarty had decided he was in need of a change. Something to liven things up a little. Getting his own hands dirty seemed like the kind of thing to do. That, and meddling in places he most definitely shouldn't, like the occult.

"You on the other hand," the warlock hissed, "were supposed to take care of the kid for me. It'll do no good to have a Guardian on my back. Especially not that one."

"She was slipperier than expected," Moriarty yawned. "And your demons didn't exactly help. Why don't you summon something more useful, if you're so intent on continuing."

"It's not as if I can just pull a demon out of anywhere that's capable of taking on Tara Willows." 

Maybe it was because the summoning circle was still active as they spoke. Maybe it was the invoking of the Guardian's name. Maybe the thing had simply been searching for a way back through and had taken the first opportunity it had to escape its banishment. Whatever it was, the jagged runes across the floor abruptly flared a searing white and erupted into a column of light. Before them stood an armoured demon, his contorted horned skull scraping the ceiling and talons as long as swords jutting sharply from the ash-grey carapace of his hands. His glowing eyes locked onto the warlock with a fierce intensity.

"Thankyou for my freedom," he growled with a voice like crunching gears, and ran him through. The warlock choked, his eyes wide and unseeing as his blood gushed down the beast's arms. "And for the paint job," he added, with what could have been a smile. Slowly, pleasurably, he smeared the blood across his armour. The dried rust stains of his old 'paint' still clung to his scales.

"I did try to warn him," Moriarty sighed. The monster turned slowly towards him, but Moriarty remained unflappable.

"Tara Willows is alive?" the demon rasped.

"Unfortunately."

"Where can I find her?"

"Right here," Moriarty shrugged, "If you wait long enough. She's on her way now. She probably won't make it to you in one piece, but, well... you can have the scraps."

The beast grinned grimly.

"What's your name, human?"

"Oh, I know better than to give my name to a demon. But you? What do I call you?"

"Destro," he replied. "I am the greater demon Destro."

"Seriously? I was expecting something more menacing," Moriarty teased. He was walking on eggshells, and loving it. "Sounds like something a 5th grader would come up with."

Destro just snarled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone that's curious, Destro is a character that my friend in Grade 5 came up with during our creative writing project. It was this same project that inspired my two main characters of Natasha and Tara, and I have been developing them ever since. I think my friend and I had some sort of plan to use each other's characters in our short stories, which is how Destro ended up a major villain in my writing. I think Natasha got brutally murdered in my friend's piece. Oh well. 
> 
> Art Link:  
https://royalguardiansbooks.weebly.com/character-art.html


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and his companions enter Moriarty's lair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be the last chapter of my mass upload. After this, I actually have to finish writing the next chapter.   
Anyway, enjoy. :)

John wasn't quite sure how this disaster of a person had managed to survive as long as she had, and he certainly wasn't comfortable with the fact that she was now their only backup. Or that she had in her possession several very sharp objects. In their very short trip to the taxi, Tara had managed to: Fall down several steps, get her sleeve caught on a door-handle, walk into a door-frame, trip over the door-mat, and finally, whack herself in the nose with the door of the car, all miraculously without impaling herself on her own knife. 

"How," John burst suddenly, finally getting the question of off his mind. Tara and Sherlock's heads swivelled simultaneously to face him. A sudden bump in the road sent the three of them jostling into each other like a Newton's Cradle in the back seat of the taxi. Having been unable to come to an agreement over who would sit in the front, the three of them were crammed along the back-seat like sardines. The driver, whom John suspected was actually Alexis in disguise, (an assumption based on the white hairs that clung to the driver's clothes and the knowing wink he sent John. What was with the white hairs? Did she own a dog or something?) remained conveniently deaf to their conversation throughout the trip.

"How what?" Tara blinked.

"Is there like, some sort of on/off switch? How are you a walking catastrophe one minute and the next some sort of... calm, collected killing machine?"

Tara appeared to suddenly choke.

"First of all, do I look as though I would kill anyone?"

Sherlock scrunched his nose, about to say something snarky, no doubt.

"Sherlock Holmes!," she interrupted, appearing thoroughly affronted. "There is a difference between could and would."

"But you admit you could kill someone, though."

She sighed deeply, sinking down in the seat until the seat-belt halted her. "Yes," she groaned in a somewhat flat tone. "I am physically capable of killing someone without breaking a sweat, however I have never, nor do I intend to ever, use my abilities to end another life. And as for the clumsiness," she added, perking up a bit, "It sort of depends on how much I'm concentrating. Once the adrenaline kicks in, I barely even have to think about not falling over, but until then... Say you were to throw a ball at my face. I would either catch it in one hand without blinking or I would squeak and get hit in the nose. There is very little in between."

"Huh," John mused, before returning his gaze to the view out the window. "So that guy... who, uh... died??"

"Yeah, that's my boyfriend, Mendax." Then she added; "We've been friends for a few years. Started going to the movies together a few months ago. It took three weeks for me to realise he'd been flirting with me and another year and a half to actually agree to go out with him," she chuckled. "I'm not the most observant on the romance end of things."

"Neither is Sherlock," John mumbled to himself. From the slight snort next to him, he guessed Tara had heard him. 

"You have arrived at your destination," Alexis/Taxi Driver droned in a playful imitation of a GPS.

The three crammed passengers piled out of the car. Not long after, everything went to shambles. 

*

"Welcome to my labyrinth," boomed Moriarty's overly cheerful voice through the speakers. Sherlock glared at the windowless room and the locked trap-door above them. There was a screen in the top corner of the small concrete room, a reinforced locked door at the end and a long metal table in the centre. A spray of photographs were spread across its surface. "I've created a series of challenges for you to solve, Sherlock. I think you'll find them similar to your dear sister Eurus' puzzles. Lovely girl. I was very much inspired by her work."

"I've had enough of your games, Moriarty," Sherlock hissed. The screen flashed to life, displaying a close-up of the criminal mastermind himself.

"Oh come on, Shirley, admit it. You've missed this."

"Let us out!" John cut. Sherlock could sense his anger behind him, while Tara appeared to be forcing herself to calm, a strange sort of steel settling over her fiery eyes.

"Not until you solve the crime of the Footprints on the Ceiling. I'll give you a hint. Each room relates to a different element of the mystery. It's up to you to solve my puzzles to fit together the pieces."

Sherlock inhaled, mentally weighing his options. It seemed there weren't many to choose from.

"And if I don't play your little game?" he asked, an answer already forming in his mind. From somewhere in the room, a red dot came to settle on John's forehead.

"Oh, I think you will. We don't want John here to lose his head, after all."

Sherlock stiffened and delivered the answer Moriarty had been waiting for.

"What do I have to do?"

"That's what I thought," Moriarty grinned. "Welcome to the room of the Culprit. See those photos on the table there? Each photo has a 4 digit code on the back, one of which will allow access to the lock on the door at the end of the room. Only one of the codes will work, and I strongly suggest against trial and error. Your job is to find which of these men is the killer using only the pictures in front of you so that the slippery little red-head over there can use her skills to pick the lock and open the door. I trust you've restocked your hair-pin supply after our last encounter, Tara. I still have the pile that held back that mane of yours sitting in my office."

And with that, Moriarty's feed cut off, and they were left to solve the puzzle. 

Sherlock eliminated four of the eight photos within a minute. But the others? Even with his deductive skills, there was not much to go on. Unless...

"Tick, tock, tick, tock," came Moriarty's patronising drawl over the speakers.

The killer was a demon summoner, was he not? What did he already know... What had he already seen that denoted a Wielder. Sherlock Holmes was a master at noticing patterns. All he had to do was look for one now.

There. How did he not see it before? A slight discrepancy in the pigmentation on one man's neck, barely noticeable to the naked eye. But, pulling out his pocket magnifying glass, Sherlock saw it. A slight swirl of raised pale skin like the black-light tattoos of the other Warlocks.

"Gotcha. 4879, Tara. The culprit is a Mr Lyndon Gale."

With a nod, Tara carefully plugged the code into the door panel. With a hiss, it slid back, revealing a complex lock behind it. Tara pulled a bobby-pin from her braid and got to work. 

*

Moriarty watched with glee as his target inserted her hair-pin into his trap. One wrong move on her part, and the mechanism would discharge a deadly voltage, killing her instantly. Of course, he wasn't entirely unfair: If she could manage to smoothly, efficiently pick the lock without any harsh jolts, the trap wouldn't trigger and she'd be safe. For now, at least.

His labyrinth was not only designed to test Sherlock and his ability to cope with knowledge of the magical world. It was also designed to finish off the thorn in his side that was Tara Willows.

Moriarty grinned at his monitor and settled back to watch the show. 

*

A faint sizzling sound met Tara's hypersensitive hearing. Slowly removing her pin from the lock, she pressed her slightly pointed ear to the wall. Her eyes narrowed.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, seeing her pause in progress.

"The door is booby-trapped. If I hit the wrong pin while picking, it'll fry my brains. I'll have to take it slowly. I don't much fancy being electrocuted."

Keeping her ear pressed to the cold metal, Tara re-inserted her pick and worked it slowly into the locking mechanism, pausing each time she heard a sudden flare in the metallic sizzling, until with a satisfying click, the door swung open.

"Got it," she breathed, and the three of them stepped through. 

To absolutely no one's surprise, the door swung shut behind them.

The next room contained a long wall and three different-coloured doors, as well as a table covered in assorted objects and another screen on the wall.

"Welcome to the room of the Motive." Moriarty once again appeared on the screen, his eyes glinting with unnerving delight. "Before you, you'll see three doors. Each one corresponds to a possible motive for these murders. Using what's on the table before you, you must deduce the killer's motive and figure out its corresponding door. One door leads to safety. The others... not so much."

Even to Tara, who was more intelligent than she gave herself credit for, the miscellaneous objects scattered across the table seemed to have little connection. She only hoped Sherlock and his genius mind saw things differently.

A suitcase, a paintbrush covered in black paint (if Tara had to guess, she'd say that had something to do with demon summoning), a statuette of interlinked hands, a ring, a no smoking sign, a stuffed shark painted with an N and a crossed out H... Needless to say, Tara was confused. 

"Seriously, Moriarty. Is that the hardest you could come up with?" Sherlock scoffed, pouring over the table. "I do like the touch with the shark, though. You must have been bored."

"Does that mean you've solved it?" John asked tentatively.

"Of course. Isn't it blindingly obvious?"

At both Tara and John's blank looks, Sherlock sighed and began arranging the objects in some sort of order.

"The killer made a deal with the warlocks - that's the business suitcase - to summon a demon - the paintbrush - which needed multiple warlocks to stand in a ring holding hands," he pointed to the ring and the statuette, "but the warlocks refused to do the magic smokey poof thing - the no smoking sign - and gave him snark about it - the shark with an N."

Tara stared. "How the heck did you get all that?"

"Did you really just say 'magic smokey poof thing'?" John blinked.

"Don't be too hard on him," Tara giggled. "He's a genius, but sometimes it takes a lot of braining to language the Englishness."

John looked at her with utter resignation.

"So how do we work out which door to go through? It's just a bunch of different colours."

Tara's eyes widened as the pieces started to fall into place. She silently prayed that Sherlock's knowledge of colour theory was more comprehensive than her own.

"Colour theory," both her and Sherlock blurted simultaneously.   
"Each colour has a different meaning," Sherlock continued, clasping his hands before him as he descended into his own mind. Tara had been trying for a while to learn to read auras. Seeing them was the easy part: the hardest thing was remembering what each of the colours meant. Even with an artist's eye, Tara struggled to distinguish between the specific shades of red. Which ones meant love? Which ones meant anger? Did that guy want to kill her, or was he just happy to see her? It was all too much.   
Sherlock, on the other hand, didn't seem to have the same problems with memory. How crowded must the inside of his head be?

"Cloudy red, greed or cruelty. Dirty green, spite. Dull grey brown, selfishness. All possible motives but given the established reason was that they gave him snark after refusing a deal, I'd say the most reasonable motive would be spite."

"Ok, how can you remember the meaning for an extremely specific shade of green out of hundreds, but not that the sun is the centre of the solar system?" John grouched.

"Let's just go through the door and hope we don't die. Sound good?" Tara sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reference I used for the colour theory was www.eaglespiritministry.com/works/colorch.htm   
I am aware different sites will tell different meanings, but this is just the one I used.   
:)  
Art Link:  
https://royalguardiansbooks.weebly.com/character-art.html


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock faces the final room, and the choices that accompany it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while since my last chapter, I've been busy with exams, as well as starting my own original story, which this fanfic ties into. So, this chapter may make some references to plot points in my main (currently still unwritten) series, but these will mostly just be as character flashbacks, and won't influence the plot of this fanfic.   
Anyway, I hope you enjoy the new chapter and now that it's the holidays, I hope to get the next one done soon.

"Congratulations. You didn't die," came Moriaty's smug announcement. Sherlock glared at the empty room before him as the green door slammed behind them. A single handgun lay on the floor in the centre of the room.

"Welcome to the room of the Victim," Moriarty said, and Sherlock's heart sank. "I believe your sister Eurus had a similar setup. Before you sits a firearm and a choice, Sherlock."  
The three of them stared at the glock on the floor.

Sherlock was never particularly good at reading moods - he was about logic, not emotion - but even to him, it was obvious the mood in the room was dark. Anxious. On edge. That only worsened when the red dot of a laser sight settled not only on John's forehead, but on Tara's. Both stiffened, Tara's eyes crossing slightly as she tried in vain to spot the hovering circle.

"Since I'm feeling generous, I'll make this choice nice and easy," Moriarty chuckled, clearly revelling in their discomfort. Sherlock knew what the choice would be: choose one. It was always the same, choose one to save. Choose one to kill. Choose to hand over whatever the criminal wanted or choose to let someone die. And Sherlock knew in his heart that no matter what else was on the line, he would always choose the same thing: John. So in a way, the choice would always be easy, because it was always the same. Save John Watson. As such, when Moriarty gave the instructions, Sherlock's mind was already made up. Even so, an easy decision was not necessarily a painless one, and this was no exception.

"You can either pick up that gun and shoot Tara Willows," Moriarty instructed, "or I can kill both her and your little doctor friend myself. Simple."

The only indication of Tara's fear was a sharp intake of breath. John was a little more verbal, muttering a string of curses under his breath. Slowly, gingerly, Sherlock picked up the weapon.

"Why have me do it if your just going to kill her yourself," Sherlock bit, already knowing the answer. He just wanted to hear it with his own ears.

"Because I want Tara dead, and I want you to suffer. Two birds with one stone, Shirley." Sherlock could practically hear Moriarty's grin over the phone. "I'll give you lot some time to think things over," and the radio feed went silent. 

*

As soon as they find Moriarty, Tara was going to punch him in the face. Assuming she was still alive at that stage, because apparently the King of Crime was trying to knock her off in the most Sherlock-traumatising way possible. Tara counted her breathes, forcing herself to calm. Not here. She couldn't afford to break down, not here, not now. She pushed the panic down, swallowing it like she swallowed down air, until she could look Sherlock in the eyes.

"If I'm going to be shot, I'd rather be shot by you than by Moriarty," she said slowly, terrified at how calmly the words came out. John started beside her, and she sent him a look that she hoped conveyed that 'yes, she did realise the gravity of the situation, and no, she did not want to hear his complaints.' Someone was going to get shot in this room, and she sure as heck didn't want it to be him.

"Sherlock, listen to me," John pleaded. "You can find another way, with that big brain of yours, can't you?"

He stared at Sherlock, his eyes wide with both fear and hope - hope that clearly shattered at the look on Sherlock's face.

Uncertainty.

"Sherlock?" John asked tentatively. "Sherlock, please tell me there's a way that no one has to die."

Sherlock couldn't meet his eyes.

"I..." he hesitated quietly. "I don't know."

"There is," Tara whispered, aware that Moriarty would still be listening. Two heads swivelled to face her. "But for it to work," she continued slightly louder, "Sherlock, you still need to shoot me." 

"Tick tock, tick tock," came Moriarty's reminder, letting them know their time was almost up. Tara really hoped Sherlock had got the gist of her plan without her flat out explaining for Moriarty to hear, although the look on his face suggested he understood well enough. He was a genius at reading body language, after all.

Tara took a deep, shuddering breath and stared down the shaking gun barrel as Sherlock raised the pistol.   
"Try to steady your hands, please," she added, knowing Sherlock would pick it up as her way of conveying her nerves. "I really don't want you to miss."

There was a flicker of humour in his eyes, but it quickly passed to regret as he steadied the gun with his spare hand.

"I'm sorry," he said, and pulled the trigger. 

*

Moriarty laughed as the gunshot sounded. The red-haired teen crumpled under her own weight, blood splattering the concrete floor, and Moriarty grinned. Sherlock turned to face the camera, gun still in hand and - Ooh, he was angry. Moriarty would almost have thought he actually cared. 

A quiet chuckle bubbled from his throat. He was enjoying this, so much that he felt generous enough to call off his snipers. Generous enough that he would allow them some rest time before the next challenge. 

"A single bullet won't be enough to kill her," came a guttural growl from the shadows. Moriarty spun lazily in his swivel-chair to face the armoured creature.

"I thought as much," he sighed. "Which is why I agreed you could have the scraps."

One way or another, the slippery teen would not make it out alive. Sherlock on the other hand... Moriarty was still contemplating. He truly enjoyed these little games with the detective. It would be a shame to end them so quickly after his return. 

*

The duct-tape snapped as the knife came down and she raised her hand to shield herself. The blade sliced across her wrist, biting into flesh and nerves and she screamed, pain and fear turning her vision white. 

A cold hand clamped her wrists behind her back, cutting off her struggles with a sharp twist that left her gasping. The knife glinted as it reached its peak, then dropped abruptly, sheathing itself between her ribs. This time the screams were not her own, but her sister's, who watched as she fell, watched as the dark stain spread underneath her and pooled into the cracks of the ritual circle. 

The monster's claws tore through her vest, the protective fabric useless against a greater demon, but she barely felt it, her lungs screaming as she stumbled, but did not stop, could not stop. She kept on running, even as blood pattered on the cold stone floor, until she slammed full-speed into the crystal pillar. Light flared inside it at her touch, and the warmth of magic once again filled her body, just as she knew it would be returning to every other wielder on the battlefield outside. The demon roared and despite herself, she smiled, shaking, gasping, but laughing. She had won. She could rest now.

Her legs gave out and she slid down the face of the crystal pillar, barely registering the bloody smear that followed her down, and lent her back against the cool, smooth surface. The tears in her side poured red onto the stone, and she vaguely thought that was going to leave a mark. 

What was one more scar to add to a collection? 

*

"Ow," Tara groaned. The ground was hard.

"Ow? Is that your only response to getting shot?" John said, kneeling down next to her.

"Well I could say something more colourful, like, uh... flibbertigibbeting fudgenuggets... but Ow works."

John stared at her, apparently unsure whether she was being serious or not, or perhaps wondering why she hadn't gone into shock. To tell the truth, her body had long since bypassed that reaction. The doctor gently inspected her wound, which, to everyone's relief, had missed any vital organs. Sherlock's aim was pretty good after all.

"How did you know that would work?" John said.

"Mycroft made me read both your files before the assignment." Tara replied, wincing. "I know about Sherlock getting shot by your wife. Whiiiich... sounds awkward... but anyway, I figured a similar precision shot might work."

Moriarty had given them some time (how generous of him. ugh.) to sort out Tara's injury, and after pulling together some makeshift bandages from one of Tara's layers of clothing.

The worst part was digging the bullet out: The problem with supernatural healing was that wielders had developed an annoying defence to infection, in that if foreign objects were left in wounds, they wouldn't heal. At all. No cuts would close, no blood would clot. They would just keep bleeding from every nick and graze until they bled out.

Which meant that the easiest way to kill a faerie was to leave shrapnel or bullet shards in an injury. Thanks a lot, evolution. 

Needless to say, by the time Tara was bandaged and on her feet again, she was in a fair bit of pain, but, with the bullet out and the wounds tightly bandaged, the bleeding had practically stopped and her head was still clear. Stripped down to her now blood-stained green singlet, Tara shivered as the drafty cell air whispered along her exposed arms, but smiled thinly nonetheless.

"I told you I'd be fine," she joked.

"Alright," John conceded, looking expectantly at Sherlock. "Let's get out of here." 

*

There was no new door in this chamber, but Sherlock soon discovered why. Once again the ground gave way beneath the group, spilling them heavily onto the concrete floor of another room as the trapdoor closed above them. Tara yelped as the landing jarred her injury, but climbed quickly to her feet nonetheless. Sherlock had to admit, he was impressed. He knew from experience just how much a wound like that hurt, and yet this kid bore it like a scraped knee. Was it possible she didn't feel pain to the extent of a normal human? Could the elfin biology be adapted to numb pain reception, or was it some sort of response to physical danger, or... Oh. Once again Sherlock had overlooked the simple explanation.

She was just used to it. 

A slow, condescending clap brought Sherlock back to the present and Sherlock turned to face the end of the long room, where a figure lazily reclined in a swivel chair. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he noticed the wall of screens lining the figure's desk, and the microphone sat next to an empty bag of marshmallows and packet of gum. The sound of deliberate, open-mouth chewing broke through the dusty air as the chair swung to face the group.

"Moriarty," Sherlock said flatly and made to move towards the criminal genius.

"Sherlock, no!" Tara cried and lunged for his arm, dragging him back with surprising strength as a tall armoured creature materialised from the shadows. Tara's eyes were wide, her face pale and Sherlock realised he'd never quite seen her this afraid, this angry before.

"Sorry Sherlock," Moriarty grinned, "But the game's not quite over yet."

Tara's grip on Sherlock's arm was beginning to grow painful, but she didn't seem to realise. The hulking monster bared its teeth in what appeared to be a smile and placed itself between Moriarty and the group. Its scales were smeared with a dark red liquid, which flaked away like rust in some areas and gave off a harsh rotting odour that seared Sherlock's senses. Tara's knife slid smoothly from its sheath.

"How are you here?" she hissed. Ah. The pieces clicked together in his mind: This was the demon she had a history with. The one who gave her those scars. Destro. 

"I could ask you the same, Guardian," the beast growled in reply, his voice grating like jammed gears. "I thought I killed you."

"Yeah, well it didn't stick. Just like your banishment to Oblivion, apparently."

"Well," he replied, baring yellowing fangs. "I guess I'll just have to kill you again, right after I rip your friends to shreds and make you watch."

Sherlock barely had time to draw his own gun from his coat before the towering creature lunged, and a wall of flame rose to meet him.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fight scene. Yay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you I'd have the next one up soon!   
As it turns out, family shopping trips are great places to get writing done, because walking around mindlessly for hours is a great time to daydream about my story, and sitting bored outside the shops waiting for people is a great time to actually write it. 
> 
> In other news, I am thinking of starting a Tumblr for my writing and art stuff. I'll let you know if that comes to be and if there is any content for this story. There probably will be. 
> 
> Let me know in the comments if there's anything you want to see, and enjoy the boss fight. :)

Everything was dark. Mendax felt nothing, but for a strange niggling sensation in his arm that became progressively sharper as the minutes drifted by. His eyelids fluttered, and blinding brightness momentarily broke the unending black. He opened his eyes, squinting as the light seared his senses, then opened them a little wider, and wider again, until he was staring into a pair of mischievous ice blue eyes.

Mendax gasped and sat bolt upright, gulping in air as though it could stave off the numbness of his recently empty lungs. His arm felt raw, and he quickly realised that it was because Estelle, the owner of the mischievous gaze he'd woken up to, had been prodding him repeatedly with a pink plastic knife.

It was then that sensation flooded back into his cold body, most notably the pain, which throbbed through every inch of him and burned in his chest.

"How long was I out?" he groaned, gritting his teeth against the sensory onslaught.

"About a day and a half," Estelle shrugged, flipping her blunt plastic blade casually in one hand. "The doctor stitched you up pretty good, so you healed really fast."

"Where is everyone?"

"Going after Moriarty," Estelle replied. "They left me here to make sure you were OK when you woke up. Thalia and Nat are on another Mark mission and Alexis went to check in with Minecraft."

"Sorry?"

"Minecraft Holmes. You know, secret service boss guy?"

"Mycroft," Mendax corrected flatly.

"That's what I said." 

Mendax took a moment to look around. He was lying on a pile of pillows in a sparse apartment, which he assumed was Tara's. She must have brought him here after he... uh... well...

There was a blanket draped over him as well, and his feet poked out the bottom. It was sweet, he thought, that she had tried to make him comfy, even if his lanky height made it a little hard. The blanket smelled like her too, where it wasn't stained with his blood - the strange sweet burning scent of the fire lily flowers which bloom from her magic. It was a warm, comforting smell to wake up to after being shot in the heart.

Mendax climbed shakily to his feet, his shirt sticking to him uncomfortably with half-dried blood stains that stood stark against the grey material.

"I knew I should have worn black," he mumbled to himself.

"Um, Mendax?" Estelle said, tossing him his knife bag. He caught it in surprise with one hand and turned to question her, but she cut him off. "Your wrist is glowing. Mark has a mission for you."

"Awww come on!" he shouted, and vanished in a burst of light.

*

A wall of flame erupted between Sherlock and the demon before the monster could reach him.

"Grab John and get to the back of the room," Tara ordered, shoving Sherlock backwards away from the raging demon. "If you get a clean shot, aim for the joints between his scales."  
And suddenly it was clear, the switch had been flipped. The quiet, timid sketch artist had been replaced with the warrior, the Guardian.

Her bare arms were glowing with whorls of turquoise markings and her hands were flickering with eerie flames. Splattered with blood, silver knife in hand and incandescent with magic, she looked both terrifying and positively otherworldly. 

The monster roared and swiped at her with long taloned hands and Tara rose to meet him with ferocious bursts of magic that seared his scales and steamed off bloodstains, filling the air with the pungent stench of burning.   
She moved like a conductor without a baton, each fluid, deadly motion delivering another burst of concentrated energy, occasionally darting under a swing to jab at his scales with her blade. It was like a dance without music or rhythm, and Sherlock watched in fascination, gun poised to fire should an opportunity arise.

Sherlock could deduce many things from watching Tara fight: That her injury was preventing her from exploiting her physical training and thus she relied on her magic as the main weapon of this fight. That she was tiring quickly, and was strategically trying to position the beast so that he and John could take a shot, to no avail. That with so much energy going into keeping herself on her feet, she wouldn't be able to sustain her powers for much longer.

That she was fully prepared to die to protect them from the demon's wrath. 

Moriarty met Sherlock's eyes from across the room, his infuriating smile suggesting he too saw what Sherlock did. Beside him, John flicked the King of Crime an obscene hand gesture, forcing Sherlock to crack a grin. John, good old John, never ceased to awe him.   
He was glad that, amongst having his world turned upside down, John Watson was still beside him. Giving the world's most dangerous man the rude finger while a faerie and a demon fight it out in the background. Gosh, when did things get so weird? 

"Getting tired, little girl?" Destro grinned. Tara's cheek was bleeding where a stray claw had skimmed her. Her chest was heaving, her blue eyes dark with pain as she pushed through her injury. No regular human would have lasted this long, Sherlock knew, especially with such blood loss already.

"You never have faced me at full strength, have you?" Tara panted, clutching at her side where fresh blood had begun to seep through the makeshift bandage. "It's always when I'm powerless, or injured, or both."

The demon chuckled, raising his taloned hands beside him mockingly. Sherlock realised Tara's ploy and steadied his gun, waiting for an opening. She was baiting him, encouraging him to gloat, to think she was defeated.   
"And yet you seem to have survived just fine all those times," he teased.

Tara took a step backwards, deliberately placing herself out of the way, and Sherlock and John fired, one round after the other, straight into the demon's chest until their cartridges were empty. Black blood sprayed from the wounds and Destro roared, the sound shaking the room. Behind him, Moriarty raised a single eyebrow, impressed. He obviously hadn't expected them to succeed in injuring his demonic guard dog.

"Did we get it?" John asked, still gripping his hand-gun tightly.

"I think so," Sherlock muttered in reply. His own hands were shaking, whether from adrenaline or fear he couldn't tell.

But the monster's roar turned into a laugh.

*

Tara hit the wall hard, Destro's backhanded strike knocking the air from her screaming lungs. His laugher still echoed in her ears. The ground was slick with black goo but even a chest full of lead didn't seem to slow the demon down.   
But though every inch of her ached, though the corners of her vision had begun to blur and her magic was growing weaker by the minute, Tara would not stop fighting until Sherlock and John were safe.

He threw her to the ground, into the wall and to the ground again, but the demon seemed content to play with his food. He was in no hurry to kill her.   
Tara grabbed at his wrist as he lifted her up once again, pumping energy into her fingers as she had done to break the handcuffs until his scales steamed and the demon hissed. But his grip only tightened and if she had of been human, her spine would have snapped with the force that slammed her into the nearest solid surface. As it was, though her elfin bones couldn't break, she felt her shoulder pop from its socket and pain screamed through her like lightning.

Light flashed before her eyes and she knew that if she was already seeing white, she wasn't far from unconsciousness. But no, this light wasn't in her head: a flash of glowing colour appeared above them, and a figure dropped from the ceiling, knives out, soaked in blood and screaming blue murder.

Mendax planted his blades in the demon's shoulders and slid down his back like a pirate on a sail. Destro roared in pain again and released his grip on Tara, who dropped like a stone onto her injured shoulder. Suddenly the ground felt like jelly, and Tara looked over to see the tall, dark-haired figure of Mendax bent with his hand pressed flat to the floor.

And with Mendax working his magic, Destro sank straight through it like it was made of water. 

*

Mendax buried the demon up to his waist in concrete, then straightened, shaking out his hand to ease the sting of using his magic so soon after dying. Manipulating states of matter was his main speciality, but it still took the wind out of him. Black ooze poured from the slashes in the beast's back, but Mendax was already covered in blood that he really didn't care. This shirt was going in the fire when he got home anyway.

"Your knight in shining blood-stains has arrived," he joked, offering a red-caked hand to Tara's uninjured one. "To help the dragon save the damsels in distress." He gestured with a smirk to Sherlock and John at the end of the long room.

"The dragon thanks the good knight for his timely assistance," Tara said cordially, matching his smirk as she accepted his help to her feet. "But wishes to know what the heck he's doing out of bed so soon."

"RAAAAAARRRRRGGGGGG" roared Destro, still stuck in cement. It really ruined the moment. 

"I assume you want to do the honours of sending him back to Oblivion." Mendax offered her his knife, hers being thrown somewhere across the room during the fight. She nodded stiffly, her fiery blue eyes dark with a mixture of anger and pain. Even splattered with blood, her bright red waves falling messily from her braid and bruises forming on her bare freckled arms, she looked as fierce and as beautiful as the day he had met her.

"Well, that was unexpected."   
The lilting Irish accent belonged to a man at the other end of the room, whom up until now had gone unnoticed by Mendax. He was a smug looking fellow, with dead eyes that gave his half-smile a quality of creepiness. Mendax had to assume that this was the famed Moriarty he'd heard so much about.

Moriarty glared directly at the trapped demon, still chewing lazily on a stick of gum.   
"I thought you said you could handle this." There was a hint of irritation in his tone, especially so when he turned to address Mendax. "And I thought you were dead."   
Mendax returned the gaze with crooked smirk of his own, which, with his hetrochromic eyes and jagged scar, would appear more than a little sinister.   
"Better luck next time, mate, 'cos it didn't stick," he said, savouring the slight flicker of alarm in the criminal's expression.

"So, Tara," he continued, retaining unblinking eye contact with Moriarty, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Care to do your thing?"

"With pleasure," she said, and embedded the blade into the demon's neck. 

Tara Willows may have sworn to never take a human life, but that didn't mean she afforded the same niceties to demons. Especially not a demon who had hunted and tormented her half her life. 

With a final guttural roar, the trapped demon erupted into a turret of black flames, disappearing back into banishment. 

*

By this time, John had just learned to roll with whatever was going on. So when the previously dead guy dropped from the sky, turned the floor to liquid and sank the demon into the cement, he just tried to accept it. 

Yeah. This was totally normal.

On a more serious note however, their red-headed neighbour was beginning to look very worse for wear. Aside from the fact that she should have toppled over ages ago, Tara's green singlet was soaked by a growing stain of blood, and she was swaying slightly on her feet. Her shoulder was very clearly dislocated, her bare arms split by grazes and cuts from being thrown around. And yet she still found the strength to drive a knife so far into the demon that it blasted him into another dimension. 

"You look like you're about to fall over," Mendax murmured gently. "Do you need to lean on me?" 

Tara nodded stiffly, though her feet seemed glued to that spot. The tall boy moved to her instead, tenderly asking where was okay for him to touch so that he could support her weight. It seemed her legs had finally given up on her, whether from the exhaustion of a magic-heavy battle, or (more likely) from her various injuries, and she crumpled into his arms. 

Now they just had Moriarty to deal with.

"So," Sherlock broached, his empty gun still trained on the King of Crime. "How'd you do it? Fake your death?"

"Or come back from the dead, if we're talking magic here," Mendax supplied. 

"...Yes, or that."

"First of all," Moriarty said, raising an indignant finger. "Put your gun down Sherlock. We both know its empty. Secondly..." 

An ominous smile split his features, and he stuffed his hands carelessly into his suit pockets. 

"What fun would it be if I just told you? Our game's not over yet, Sherlock." 

"Oh, I think it is," Sherlock retorted. "We've solved your puzzles, beaten your guard dog. You've got nowhere left to run." 

As if to emphasise his point, or maybe just to add a bit of extra threat, seeing as both John's and Sherlock's guns were empty, Mendax summoned a clear blade from the air around him, turning the air solid the same way he turned the ground to liquid, and directed it at the criminal mastermind. 

"Oh dear," Moriarty drawled. "It appears I'll have to surrender."


End file.
